


Family Ties

by Riahlynn101



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: AU-Bruce isn't a Wayne, AU-Siblings, Adoption, Brothers, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, No Incest, No Smut, angst in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24994612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riahlynn101/pseuds/Riahlynn101
Summary: Jim was just trying to solve the Wayne murders, but after stumbling across the wrong date on Bruce's birth certificate, he finds himself falling down a rabbit hole. The conclusion he comes to will change Bruce and Gotham's fate, forever.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jeremiah Valeska & Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jerome Valeska & Bruce Wayne, Jim Gordon/Leslie Thompkins
Comments: 61
Kudos: 67





	1. Prologue

Grumbling to himself, Gordon dropped his head into his folded arms. His desk was a mess of scattered case files - some dating as far back as 1910 - and financial records. All of which, at first glance, looked unrelated to one another. The one thing even remotely tying all a thousand-and-four (yes, Jim counted. He couldn’t be expected to focus all the time) cases together was the Wayne murders. All the files and/or records were past employees with a motive and criminal history and the birth and death certificates of the Wayne family.

Jim felt certain there was a lead hiding somewhere within the clutter. All-day he had been leafing through file-after-file, scrutinizing every single individual word, trying to imagine how this ‘new’ piece of evidence could fit into the Waynes’ murder. Often, Gordon couldn’t, so he discard the file by shoving it into an unused part of his desk. Sometimes, though, he would get lucky and stumble across a likely suspect. Only to check the database and find the suspect had been doing hard time during the murders. Feeling defeated, Gordon slumped back in his seat.

He had been going at this for - Jim looked down at his watch - seven hours now. Wow, had it been that long? Jim knew he tended hyperfocus, especially when whatever he was focusing on mattered to him (and, oh boy, did this case matter to him), but seven hours was a long time to lose track of time.

Jim looked out across the precinct. Most of the desks were empty, no surprise. Everyone hated the night shift. As bad as Gotham was during the day, it got a whole lot worse at night. The night crew, which consisted of one custodian who liked to blare his music so loud everyone else could hear it coming from his headphones and four cops who were conjugating together gossiping, paid Jim little mind.

On the bright side, at least Harvey isn’t here to bother him. Harvey was a good partner on the field, and he was slowly warming up to Jim, but by god was the man stubborn. Ever since he had shot Mario Pepper, Harvey refused to help him out with the Wayne case, telling Jim the case was closed.

The memory of sitting in Captain Essen’s office and being told to shut the case, still made his blood boil. Gotham’s corrupt, Jim knows that, but when did that corruption reach the GCPD? When did the GCPD stop doing their jobs, and start framing Gotham’s citizens just because it was easier?

Jim turned his attention back to the sizable pile of folders sitting on the desk.

He got through the bulk of the pile with relative ease. Until he got to the last couple folders. The second to last folder contained the official death certificates for Martha and Thomas Wayne. Immediately, Jim remembered why he took this case in the first place.

Bruce, the Waynes’ only son and the sole surviving victim of the attack, was counting on him to find his parents’ murderer. The child-like faith Bruce has is almost touching. And Jim would hate himself if he was the one to ruin that about Bruce.

Not finding anything of value in the file, he discarded the file with the others.

Sighing, Jim mentally prepared himself for the last file. He silently prayed to every single god in existence that there would be something, anything in this file that could help reopen the case.

Opening the file, it became clear that the file was on Bruce, nothing bad or particularly interesting, basic information, hospital records, and school records. Jim took a moment to skim his birth certificate, more out of curiosity than anything else. His eyes scanned over the parents’ names, the child’s name, and the birth date. He paused.

The date was off by four years - Gordon only knew the boy’s birthday because Alfred had mentioned it. For a second, he assumed the hospital had misprinted the date. An easy mistake to make, but an important one. Then he remembered how influential the Wayne family is in Gotham. This wasn’t an accident.

Jim shuffled through the other papers in the file. There had to be a reason as to why the date was wrong. Tired, new parents overlooking the error. A malfunctioning computer that just so happened to pick Bruce Wayne’s birth certificate. Adoption.

The word echos in his head, reverberating against the corners and crevices of his mind. It didn’t make sense, unless. Jim went through the pile of papers once more, pulling out Bruce’s medical records. He checks the date on the oldest one, it’s dated two days earlier than the certificate. It doesn’t give Bruce a last name and states his reason for being hospitalized as “having severe bacterial meningitis”. It doesn’t give anything else away.

Great, Jim thinks to himself, another mystery. He stands up, intent on solving one mystery or another before he heads home.

\----------------------------

As luck would have it, Kristen Kringle - the GCPD’s record keeper - was just starting to lock the door. Jim felt guilty about asking her to help him, but if anyone could, it was her. He briefly considered turning around and forgetting all about this. Jim had enough to worry about, he needed sleep - not that he ever did. Mrs. Kringle needed to get home before dark; Jim hardly felt safe during nighttime, he couldn’t imagine how a woman might feel.

Still, he needed to know. Jim knows he’ll never truly forget this little mystery, it’ll always be there rattling around inside his head. With this in mind, he taps Kristen on the shoulder.

She jumps and Gordon takes a few steps back to give her room. She looks him up and down.

“Detective Gordon, how-how can I help you?” she asks, wearing a weary smile. For the second time in under a minute, Jim debates leaving Kristen alone. “Well?” She asks, growing slightly more impatient.

“Sorry, Ms. Kringle, but I was hoping you could help me find an adoption record.”

She stares at him in a way that reminds Jim of the way he use to stare at customers who would wonder in two minutes before closing time, back when he held a dead-end job at some burger joint.

“I don’t have - the GCPD only has access to criminal records,” she says.

“I know,” Jim says, even though he didn’t, “but there has to a digitized file of the adoption in the system somewhere.” He must look desperate, because Kristen stops crossing her arms and the look on her face softens.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She unlocks the door. Jim follows her inside, it’s a tight fit. How the hell does she manage to stay in this room all day? Oh, he thinks, this is why she wanted to leave so bad.

Kristen sits at her desk and turns on the computer. Awkwardly, Jim stands against one of the filing cabinets.

“Name?”

“Bruce Wayne,” he answers and earns a look of disbelief. “What?”

“Bruce Wayne? As in the heir to the Wayne fortune and company, the sole surviving victim of the Wayne murders, that Bruce Wayne?”

“Yes.”

She opens her mouth to tell him something but shuts it just as quickly. Shrugging her shoulders her attention goes back to the computer.

The incredulous look on her face is soon replaced by shock. “Hey, come over here. You may want to take a look at this.”

The name ‘Bruce Wayne’ is typed into the search bar. Gotham City, New Jersey is used to filter out thousands of other results. There’s only one result. The name, location, and adoptive parents all match Bruce perfectly. Jim has Kristen scroll down towards Bruce’s biological family.

“Brothers: Jerome Valeska (a. 10) and Jeremiah Valeska (a. 10). Mother: Lila Valeska (a. 33). Father: Unknown.”

Huh, at least Jim had something to work off of now. He asks Ms. Kringle to print off the page, and offers to walk her to her car - it’s the least he can do. She obliges, it nearly being pitch black outside.

"So, what are you going to do?" Mrs. Kringle asks once they arrive at her car.

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Thanks for helping me. You have a goodnight.”

"No problem, good luck going forward." She gets inside the car. "Oh, and Jim?" He looks at her expectantly. "If you do decide to tell Bruce, make sure to think it through. You can't throw information like this at a person without preparing them first, okay? Take it from someone who was adopted and didn't know about it for twenty years."

Jim nodded, crossing his arms."I'll keep that in mind."

\------------------------------------------

As it turns out when he said "he'll keep it in mind" what he really meant was "this piece of information will be the only thing I think about for the rest of my life." He met with Bruce the next day - not to tell him he's adopted - so he could give him any updates on his parents' case. The whole meeting Jim could hardly meet Bruce's eyes. Bruce didn't notice, which was probably for the best. He gave Bruce half-truths to keep the boy's spirits up.

Later, after leaving Wayne manor, he sits in his car and thinks about how screwed he is. He is always weighing the pros and cons of telling Bruce. Pros: Bruce knows the truth, Jim wouldn't be a liar, and Bruce could potentially still have a family somewhere out there. Cons: said biological family could be abusive, neglectful, or just outright reject Bruce or use him for his money.

Oh, God, what has he gotten himself into?


	2. The Truth Shall Set You Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate leads Jim to tell Bruce the truth.

Jim debates on what to do next for weeks. He sees Bruce three different times, but can’t bring himself to tell the boy. On one hand, there’s a chance he already knows. On the other, it’s more likely he doesn’t. 

  
  


Jim didn’t blame the Waynes for wanting to keep the adoption under wraps. While adoption was normal and even encouraged in Gotham’s suburbs, it was strongly discouraged within the Gotham’s elite. They like to keep their lines clean of any outsiders.

  
  


Martha and Thomas were in their early 20s when they married, but didn’t ‘have’ Bruce until they were in their mid-40s. Jim understands why they would adopt, being older significantly decreases your odds of having a baby. What he couldn’t understand was how they managed to convince everyone in Gotham how Bruce was theirs. The boy had been four-years-old, surely people were curious where they’d been hiding the child.

  
  


Apparently not because when he went to Harvey for advice he looked just as shocked as Kristen did. Not that Harvey should ever be used to measure any type of information, ever, but he does frequent quite a few bars downtown, and if anything as scandalous as Bruce Wayne being adopted was known in Gotham, it would have come up, once or twice.

  
  
  


“But,” Jim starts, half-sitting, half-standing against Harvey’s desk, “weren’t people just a little bit curious where he came from?”

  
  
  


“No. Because, one, it’s Gotham and weirder things happen every day. Two, the Waynes kept to themselves, for the most part.”

  
  
  


“Kept to themselves? Harvey that family owns most if not all of Gotham. The Waynes were always at some gala or charity event or another…I mean this looks like something the Newspaper and tabloid reporters would eat up. Journalistic integrity, be damned.” 

  
  
  


Harvey shrugs. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe the people of Gotham really didn’t give a shit that a couple of known philanthropist billionaires adopted a kid?”

  
  
  


“Oh, philanthropist. That’s a big word for you.” It’s said in jest, but Jim can’t ignore the look of hurt that flashes across Harvey’s face.

  
  
  
  


Harvey makes a face. “You’re not the only one who knows fancy words, like ‘lackadaisical’.”

  
  
  
  


“C’mon, Harvey, that was months ago. Don’t tell me you’re still on that?”

  
  
  


“It was last week, and if you don’t mind, I have a lot of paperwork to do.” Harvey’s desk is free from clutter, but Jim takes the hint and retreats back to his desk.

  
  
  


Great, now he’s back to square one. 

  
  


\----------------------------------

Lee, the newest addition to the GCPD, has taken quite a liking to him, much to Jim’s delight. Never in his life has anyone made him feel so head-over-heels in love, not even Barbra who he once upon a time wanted to marry. Not that he would ever admit to being head-over-heels in love with Lee; he did have a reputation to uphold, but Jim’s sure she knows.

  
  


So, it’s a pleasant surprise when she asks him on a date to the traveling circus. 

  
  


Haley’s Circus visited Gotham once each year and tended to stay for a week or two, depending on how many people came to view the show. 

  
  


Jim hasn’t been since his father died, almost two decades ago, so he happily accepts. If only to spend more time with Lee and relive some of his childhood memories.

\-----------------------------------

The circus is nearly packed by the time they get there. They have to squeeze by agitated audience members to get to their seats. 

  
  


“My parents use to take me here every year for my birthday. There’s just something about the circus that feels, I don’t know, magical?” Lee is practically vibrating with excitement. Her eyes alight with former memories of the circus. “What about you? Did you ever go the circus?” 

  
  


“My father - before he died - use to take me once or twice while the circus was in town. My mother didn’t like it as much, so when he died I just stopped coming to see the shows.” Jim sees Lee’s face contorting into a look of sympathy. “So, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a show, but it looks like it’ll be fun,” he hurriedly adds. 

  
  


Pity party averted, Lee is back to hyping up the circus. She tells him about each and every show her family had seen together. What her favorite fair food was (elephant ear when she was younger, but it’s too sweet for her now). And all about her favorite circus act (the snake dancer, though she can’t remember why it’s her favorite). 

  
  


Jim sits besides her, listening with avid interest to all her ramblings. He takes notes on where to take her after the show. Possibly to one of the scattered, rigged games outside - ring toss sounded fun. Maybe he could buy them an elephant ear? Sure it was super sweet, but it wouldn’t hurt to have one.

  
  


The lights dim, bringing Jim’s train of thought to a screeching halt. “Entrance of the Gladiators” plays as the first act, a bunch of acrobats, introduced themselves as the “Flying Graysons”. Jim can’t take his eyes off the performance. 

  
  


Unfortunately, the fighting that erupts soon thereafter takes him out of the immersion. In an instant he’s on his feet, shoving passed disgruntled audience members who, by this point, are ready to throttle him.

  
  


Reaching the stairs, Jim takes three steps at a time. He jumps over the railing separating the audience from the performers. “GCPD!” He shouts, thrusting his badge in the air. They don’t stop fighting. 

  
  


\-----------------------------------------

Things don’t calm down until backup arrives. Lee and an exhausted looking EMT tend to some of the performers. They all glare at each other. Jim tries questioning a few performers, but he only gets half-answers.

  
  


In the end, he decides to stand off to the side and wait for Lee to finish. 

  
  


“Their families have been fighting since way back, but, uh, this particular fight was apparently over a woman named Lila. She's a snake dancer in the sideshow.” Lee tells him once she’s done attending to the performers. 

  
  
  


“Wow,” he says because she never ceases to amaze him.

  
  
  


“I know. How cool is that? A snake dancer.”

  
  
  


“No, I mean, wow, you're really good.” 

  
  
  


“People talk to doctors,” Lee answers with a shrug of the shoulders, like she didn’t just make his job a million times easier.

  
  
  


“I guess so. I should find this woman Lila, make sure she's okay. Might take a little awhile. I'll have a patrolman drive you home.”

  
  
  


Lee deflates a little. “I could come with you.” 

  
  
  


“Lee, this is police business.” He knows she’s seen worse, but a part of him doesn’t want her to be near any sort of danger. A bigger part of him wants her to stay. 

  
  


“Come on, Jim. I'm dying to meet Lila,” Lee begs. Jim can’t find it within himself to deny her.

  
  


“Well, bringing along medical personnel… is a justifiable precaution, I guess.” He’s grasping at straws. Thankfully, Lee backs him up.

\-----------------------------------------------

After finding Lila’s body in the back of a trailer, the next few hours blur together. Jim spends most of his morning interrogating catty performers. So, suffice it to say, not the best way to begin his shift. 

  
  


By ten he’s nowhere near done with interviewing potential suspects. Jim still has a list a mile-long to complete, and even with Harvey helping him, it wasn’t moving quickly enough.

  
  


Jerome, Lila’s son, sits across from him. He’s the least likely suspect and Jim’s favorite out of the circus bunch. The boy - though Jim hesitates to call him that because Jerome’s nearly eighteen - has the look of a kicked-puppy. He’s well-spoken, dresses less eccentrically than the others, and answers Jim’s questions to the best of his abilities. Still, there’s something about Jerome that rubs Jim the wrong way. He brushes it off but remains hyper-vigilant.

  
  


Jim skims through the file for the millionth time this morning. This time, though, his eyes lock on the victim’s last name: Valeska. Where has Jim seen that name before? It’s on the tip of his tongue. Jim sighs heavily, earning a curious glance from Jerome. 

  
  


“Everything alright, Detective?”

  
  


“Yes, sorry, I’m just going over-” Jim freezes, his mind suddenly remembering where he’s seen the name before. “I’ll be right back, Jerome. I left something on my desk.”

  
  
  


“Okay, I’ll be here.”

  
  


He rushes from the interrogation room, nearly hitting an officer keeping guard right outside the room with the door. Mumbling an apology to his coworker, Jim maneuvered his way through the precinct, side-stepping aggravated performers on the way to his desk.

  
  
  


Jim plucks the piece of paper off the desk. It’s slightly crumpled - mostly due to the fact that Jim had been carrying it when he went to visit Bruce. The thought of coming right out and telling him, always on the forefront of his mind. 

  
  
  


For whatever reason, it’s significantly easier to get back to the interrogation room.

  
  
  


Jerome doesn’t look at Jim as he enters, preferring to keep his gaze downcast. The bad feeling he has about Jerome is somehow stronger, because for some reason (to Jim) it feels like Jerome is playing-up the perfect son a little too much.

  
  
  


Once again, he ignores it.

  
  
  


“Jerome I do want to question you about your mother, but I have a few questions about something else first. Is that okay?”

  
  
  


Jerome looks at him, confused. “Sure. Uh, what about?”

  
  
  


“Your siblings,” Jim says, trying his best to keep his tone nonchalant. He flips the file open.

  
  
  


“Oh, uh, I don’t have any siblings. The circus is the only other family I have left.” 

  
  


Jim leans back in the chair, processing what Jerome just told him. All at once, he comes to a trillion different conclusions. Namely, that Jerome’s a liar.

  
  
  


“Huh, that’s weird, because according to the file here: you have two brothers, Jeremiah and Bruce.” Anger plain and clear flashes in Jerome’s eyes, but it’s gone so fast Jim almost thinks he imagined it. Almost.

  
  


“Oh, sorry,” Jerome is back to looking meek, “I thought you meant siblings that live with me. Jeremiah was sent off to boarding school seven years ago. I haven’t seen Bruce in eight, maybe nine years? Why do you ask?”

  
  


“Jerome, would you mind coming back later this afternoon?” Jim dodges Jerome’s question. There’s no telling how Jerome will react when he sees Bruce.

  
  


“What time should I be here?”

  
  


“Uh,” Jim tries to factor in calling Bruce, telling him he’s adopted, calming him down, and then convincing him to meet his estranged brother. All that could take, what? Two maybe three hours. “How about we meet back here at two.”

  
  


\---------------------------------------

It’s a little after 12 when Jim pulls up to Wayne Manor. He’s running a little behind thanks to Harvey pawning off a squabbling couple from the circus on him.

  
  


He rings the doorbell and tries his best to conceal his nervousness. What did Kristen say again? ‘Something something don’t be blunt something something.’ Goddamnit why did his memory have to fail him at the most inopportune times.

  
  


Alfred answers the door, visibly relaxing when he sees it’s Jim. “Detective Gordon, what a pleasant surprise.”

  
  


“I need to speak with Bruce, it’s urgent.” A concern look passes over Alfred’s face. Not wanting to worry the man, Jim continued, “he’s not in trouble or any danger. We need him to come down to the GCPD.”

  
  


“Is this about the murders,” Alfred whispers the last word, like he’s afraid Bruce with fall apart if he overhears it. When Jim shakes his head, the look on the older man’s face turns from worried to understanding. “Well, then, I’ll have Master Bruce down to the station by three-”

  
  


“It’s alright, Alfred. I can take him myself. It’d be quicker, and you know I would die before I let anything happen to Bruce.” Jim means it, whole-heartedly, but he can see Alfred doesn’t believe him. “I’ll have him back before four.”

  
  


“I don’t see why I can’t accompany Master Bruce.” Usually, Alfred’s fierce need to protect Bruce is admirable; it meant Bruce had someone to watch out for him when Jim can’t. However, right now, it’s slightly annoying.

  
  


“It’ll just be a quick trip. I-we really need his insight on a project the station’s working on.” Jim feels bad about lying to Alfred, but it was for the greater good, right?

  
  


“Oh, what kind of project is it?”

  
  


Shit! Think, Jim, think! What project would a bunch of police officers need the insight of a 12-year-old boy on? Arcades? No, Bruce rarely left his house. Skate park? No, same problem.

  
  


“We’re having some people from Wayne enterprises bring technology down to the station, and they need people to test it out. I thought Bruce would be a good candidate, and it would get him out of the house. There’ll be other kids his age there too.” The lie slipped from his mouth with ease.

  
  


“It would be good for him to get out of the house. Please give me a few minutes to get him ready.”

  
  


\--------------

Jim stands awkwardly on the front porch. Usually, he’d be invited in, but they really need to get back to the station. A gentle breeze leaves him feeling a little chilly. He steps from foot-to-foot, and he resists the urge to check his watch.

  
  


It’s not a minute or two later that Bruce emerges from the house. Bruce stares at Jim. His eyebrows furrowed. 

  
  


“Detective Gordon,” he says while studying Jim’s face for any indiction of why he’s stopped by. “Alfred, told me you have some Wayne tech you need me to help try-out.”

  
  


Alfred watches Jim intently, awaiting his answer. 

  
  


“Yes, uh, we need you to test some newer pieces of tech. You know, computers, automatic locks and handcuffs. But, we need some people to test those out before we actually buy them. So, a lot of cops are bringing their kids in. I thought, you might be interested?” 

  
  


Bruce considers the offer. He glances at Alfred, as if asking what he should do. An unspoken conversation is had in the space of a few seconds.

  
  


“Sure, I would love to.” Bruce turns to Alfred. “I’ll be back later. Why don’t you take the day off. Go into town or go to the cinema or-”

  
  


“Alright, Master Bruce, I understand. I’ll take the day off, but I’ll be home before you get back.” Alfred pats Bruce’s shoulder. “Off you go then.”

\-----------------

Bruce is quiet for most of the ride. He watches the scenery pass by in uncolorful blurs of skyscrapers and rundown buildings.

  
  


Feeling just the slightest bit apprehensive, Jim observes him out the corner of his eye. He tries to place Buce’s mood. The kid wasn’t always easy to read, but lately it feels damn near impossible. Jim wants to ask what’s bothering him, because clearly, something’s up.

  
  


He opens his mouth but shuts it just as quickly.

  
  


Jim didn’t deserve Bruce’s trust, not when he’s about to add to the list of issues that plague the kid’s life. Instead, he turns the music up.

  
  


\-------------------

They arrive at the station with an hour to spare, mostly due to Gotham’s rush hour traffic. 

  
  


Jim mentally prepares himself for the next few hours. Bruce, who is blissfully unaware of Jim’s (and soon, his) plight, walks next to the detective. It seems even Bruce isn’t immune to getting excited. It’s such a blatant switch from the quiet, stoicism that Bruce displayed on the ride over, that it makes Jim’s head spin.

  
  


For the second time that day, he resolves to keep his mouth shut.

  
  


“So, where’s the Wayne Tech. located?” Bruce asks once they’re inside the GCPD. He looks side-to-side as if looking for the promised event. Child-like wonder in his eyes as they travel amongst the room, taking in the bustling, busy room. Some of the performers are still waiting to be questioned. “Hey, Detective Gordon?” 

  
  


“Hm?” Jim replies half-heartedly, herding Bruce towards the interrogation room in the back of the precinct. 

  
  


“Who are those people dressed in such odd clothes?” 

  
  


“Uh, performers from the local circus.” Jim starts speed walking, spotting Jerome off alone in a corner. If Jerome spots them now, it could spell disaster. 

  
  


Thankfully, he doesn’t, and Jim ushers Bruce into the room.

\-----------------------------

Bruce sits across from Jim, curiosity etched into his face. Jim audibly swallows, not totally sure how he should start this conversation.

  
  


They sit in silence for five whole minutes before it’s broken by Bruce clearing his throat. “So, I take it the Wayne tech event isn’t real, and was just a clever ploy to get me here?”

  
  


“Yes,” Jim says already regretting his decision in bringing Bruce here. “But, I have a pretty good reason for bringing you in. Something that...something that concerns you and your family.” He ignores Bruce’s worried expression for the time being, opening the file back up.

  
  


“What-what do you mean? Is everything alright?”

  
  


“Everything’s fine. Bruce what do you know of your early childhood? Specifically before the age of five.”

  
  


Bruce scrunches his face up in concentration “Now that I think about it, not much. Vague memories but nothing concrete.” 

  
  


“Vague memories? What kind of memories?”

  
  


“The smell of alcohol. The color red. The feeling of safety....and being loved. Flashes of smiling, identical faces.…” Bruce trails off, lost in thought.

  
  


“Have you ever made sense of these memories?” Jim asks gently, leaning forward in his seat. 

  
  


“No, I brought them up to my parents once, but they told me they were nothing to worry about. Why? Should I be worried about those memories?”

  
  


“No-” Jim is interrupted by a knock on the door. It’s then that he realizes the time, and mentally face-palms. He deliberates between coming right out and telling Bruce he’s adopted, hurriedly (but nicely) make Bruce remember his biological family (which could take time), or letting Jerome in and just go from there.  
  


Another knock on the door, this one louder than the last. “Detective Gordon, are you in there!?”

  
  


“Who’s that?” Bruce asks looking at Jim expectantly.

  
  


Jim’s brain refuses to make a coherent plan, so he decides to go with the last (and most destructive plan). “Yes, Jerome I’m in here. Come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that commented, left a Kudo, bookmarked, or even took the time to read the story. I cherish every single one, and I just want to say thank you guys so much! :D


	3. Patience is a Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jerome waits for his meeting with Jim.

To say Jerome feels happy would be an understatement. He feels, oh he doesn’t know, Euphoric? Jimbo bought the whole “concerned son” shtick, hook line and sinker. He really should send ‘Miah a fruit basket; it is who Jerome is emulating.

  
  


Not that he’s totally out of the woods yet. Jim is smarter than he looks, though he tries to hide it, it’s obvious to Jerome that he’s on edge. The slightly hunched shoulders were a dead-give away.

  
  


Whether Jim expects anything substantial is to be seen. He _does_ ask for Jerome to come back. The thought of jumping on a bus out of Gotham crosses his mind. Gotham is such a busy city, and the GCPD doesn’t seem like the kind of police department that would cooperate with neighboring cities. He banishes the thought as soon as it crosses his mind; he isn’t Jeremiah - he isn’t a coward who runs from his problems. 

  
  


That’s how Jerome finds himself sitting in one of the only available chairs strewn around the bullpen. He watches his fellow circus dwellers, as they fight about Lila’s murder - it’s kind of entertaining to watch them all turn on one another. Even that one couple - the one that doesn’t even bother with Lila and Jerome - are vehemently arguing, trying to defend their respective families. 

  
  


Jerome’s chest tightens at the word ‘family’. He blames it on Jim - why did he have to bring up his brothers? 

  
  


He had dealt with Jeremiah’s betrayal years ago, and he had buried all that pain and all that hurt with a mountain of resentment and murder fantasies. 

  
  


Bruce, well Bruce is another thing entirely. 

  
  


Bruce hadn’t betrayed him, so Jerome refuses to hate him the same way he despises Jeremiah.

  
  


Jerome likes to pretend Bruce never existed, his mother sure made it seem like he didn’t. Use to make Jerome feel crazy whenever he brought him up. She finally broke down one night, telling a distraught Jerome that she gave the four-year-old away - citing unpaid medical bills, which she never fully explained. At the time, Jerome hadn’t dwelled on it - mourning the loss of not one but two brothers. It wasn’t fair that they left him, and it’s even more unfair that Jim brought it up. There’s no way that it’s relevant to his mom’s murder.

  
  


Still, Jerome doesn’t want to seem suspicious, so he agrees to meet Jimbo at three.

  
  


He spots Jim slinking through the bullpen with a dark-haired boy in tow. A glance at the clock on the wall tells Jerome there are about fifteen minutes before their meeting, but it’s hard to figure out why Jim’s meeting with someone not from the circus.

  
  


\---------

Fifteen minutes turns to ten turns to five. Jerome squirms in his seat, coming up with all the possibilities of who that dark-haired boy is. Maybe a witness? Though, that’s not at all likely. Jerome had made sure no one had seen, and the only person who could be a witness is Mr. Cicero, and Mr. Cicero wouldn’t say a word.

  
  


It all eventually becomes too much. He rises to his feet and makes his way to the interrogation room. Patiently, Jerome stands away from the door - expecting it to burst open at any moment. It doesn’t and Jerome’s (limited) patience dwindles fast.

There’s no clock over here, but Jerome knows it’s time for their meeting. He doesn’t hesitate to bang on the door, calling out to Jim - reminding him of their set time. 

  
  


Jim doesn’t answer at first, which is very rude. The muted chatter has stopped altogether. Jerome can hear the blood rushing in his ears; he knocks harder.

  
  


“Yes, Jerome I’m in here. Come in.” Jim responds, albeit, reluctantly. 

  
  


He opens the door, fully expecting the dark-haired boy to leave. Instead, Jim nods at an empty chair to the left of the kid. Jerome’s witness theory might be correct - huh, color him impressed. Expect don’t because him being correct in this case means he’s going to prison or Arkham.

  
  


“Thank you for being here, Jerome.”

  
  


_As if I had a choice,_ Jerome internally responds.

  
  


“It’s no big deal. Um, if I may ask, who is he?” He vaguely gestures in the kid’s direction. “Is-is he a potential witness?” Jerome hears himself asking, even if risky, he needs to know. 

  
  


“No, this is Bruce Wayne,” Jim searches his face for something - Jerome doesn’t know what. The name - Bruce - makes his heart clench painfully. He finds himself wanting to punch and hug the kid in equal measure; it doesn’t help at all that the kid looks so similar to his little brother.

  
  


“Hi, I’m Jerome,” Jerome says turning towards Bruce. 

  
  


The boy looks at Jerome, and all the air leaves his chest. He reaches out wanting to touch, and hold, and hug Bruce all at once. He resists, keeping his facade up, sending a questioning look Jim's way.

  
  


“I’m Bruce.” He holds out his hand to Jerome, and Jerome short circuits for a few seconds before he firmly grabs hold of his hand.

  
  


“Jerome,” Jim starts tone oddly soft, “does Bruce look familiar to you?” 

  
  


“He reminds me of someone I knew a while back...why? Should he be familiar?” Then it hits him. “He’s a Wayne, so yeah I’ve heard of him - at least I’ve heard of his family, which is close enough.”

  
  


“So, he doesn’t look like someone you might have lost a while ago?” There’s something behind the question, like Jim’s trying - no urging - Jerome to realize something. 

  
  


“I just said, he reminds me of someone I knew a while back.” Jerome wants to ask Jim if he knows how to listen.

  
  


“So, who does he remind you of?” 

  
  


Jerome clenches his teeth together. “Someone I knew a while back.” If Jim asks the same question one more time, Jerome will - 

  
  


“Who does he remind you of?” 

  
  


“Fine! He reminds me of my youngest brother. There! Are you happy?” 

  
  


Jim doesn’t gloat, just wordlessly opens the case file, takes a piece of paper out, and slides it across the table.

  
  


Jerome scans the page, comes to the obvious conclusion that it’s an adoption certificate. Then comes to the less obvious conclusion, the boy sitting beside him is his long-lost brother. He doesn’t react at first, suddenly feeling sluggish - like his brain refuses to process this new, exciting piece of information.

  
  


There’s a hard thud to his left. Jim jumps to his feet - rushing over. It takes Jerome a couple of minutes to realize Bruce has fainted. 


	4. It's a Hard-Knock Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce tries to come to terms with the adoption.

Chapter 3:  
Bruce reads the word adoption. Sees the link between his name and another that he’s not familiar with. There’s a heavyweight on his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Bruce tries not to cry; he wants to remain strong. Wants to look unbothered. Wants to talk to his (apparently, adoptive) parents, then remembers he can’t. That he’ll never get the full story because they’re dead. That ends up hurting the worse.

He starts to hyperventilate, his hands that were resting on the table at one point, grip at his shirt sleeves. Gripping at anything that can make him feel grounded, less alone, not crazy. Bruce becomes light-headed, he grabs at the table. 

Jim is oddly silent - Bruce wants to hit him, doesn’t fully understand why. Just that he does. Suddenly he’s staring down a tunnel, face getting closer and closer to the floor. 

And then there’s blessed darkness.

\-------------------

Waking up is one of the hardest things Bruce has ever done - excluding burying his parents. There’s a slight pound behind his eyes. He groans, bringing a tentative hand to his head.

“Hey, Harvey! We don’t need to call Alfred anymore. He’s alright!” Detective Gordon yells over his shoulder. Bruce rubs at his forehead, urging the ache to go away.

“Keep your voice down. You’re giving all of us a headache,” a voice says pointedly. “Stay down, Bruce. You hit your head pretty hard. Do you want anything? Some water? An aspirin?” The voice asks him, being mindful to keep to a manageable volume.

“I’m okay. Thank you for asking, though.” Bruce opens his eyes.

The boy from earlier - Jerome (if memory serves) - is kneeling next to him. His expression unreadable - it’s somewhere between pissed-off and overjoyed. 

Jim stands awkwardly in the doorway, staring at Bruce. He looks remorseful.

Good, Bruce thinks pettily. 

“Uh,” Jim clears his throat,” maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Bruce, do you want me to call Alfred?” It’s the smartest thing that’s come from the man’s mouth within the last hour, yet Bruce can’t help not wanting to see Alfred right now because he knows.

Knows he’s adopted. Worse yet, Alfred didn’t have the decency to tell him, even months after his parents (are they your parents?) were killed. He wants to cry...or laugh...or scream - maybe a combination of the three. 

Bruce listens carefully to the buzzing of the lights above their heads - something to take his mind off the current situation - and stares off into space. It’s unusual for him to do so, but spending a minute more overthinking everything going on is going to make his head explode.

He closes his eyes.

“I’ll call Alfred,” Jim says quietly - seemingly learning his lesson on controlling his volume.

Bruce finds he doesn’t have the energy to stop him.

\-----------------------

Jerome is the only constant in the chaotic situation. He sits next to Bruce, humming some tune that he can’t exactly place. The lights are off (Jerome took the initiative to turn them off once Jim left the room to phone Alfred), and it helps with easing his headache. 

“Thanks for staying with me while Detective Gordon’s gone. And I apologize for overreacting. It’s not like I don’t want to be related to you...it’s just...it’s just…” Bruce trails off, trying his darndest to find the proper way to get across how he’s feeling.

Jerome chuckles. “It’s fine. It sure is a lot to take in. I was wondering where mom hid you.”

“When can I meet her? Our mother, I mean,” Bruce suddenly feels giddy - still not fully okay with the situation, but the thought of having a mother again makes him feel warm and happy inside.

“Yeah, about that,” Jerome gives a nervous laugh, avoiding Bruce’s gaze. “Funny story actually, I-”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred calls from outside the room as if he’s giving Bruce the choice to face him.

Bruce sits up slowly, head in his hands. “Sorry, I’ll be right back.” He sends him an apologetic look.

Jerome backs off, getting to his feet. He offers his hand to Bruce.”That’s fine. Here, I’ll help you up.”

“Uh, thanks.” He’s pulled to his feet. Dark spots dance across Bruce’s vision - it’s brief, thankfully.

Alfred waits patiently down the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears. It’s a small mercy, one that Alfred most likely didn’t think anything of it- being polite is as much a part of his character as being English. 

Bruce appreciates the sentiment anyway.

He drags his feet all the way there, making sure to take his sweet time. Alfred doesn’t look at him, whether out of his guilty conscience or something else entirely, Bruce isn’t sure.

Bruce eventually makes it to Alfred. He can’t bring himself to look up, choosing instead to stare intently at his shoes.

Alfred coughs - a not so subtle way of getting Bruce to look at him. It doesn’t faze Bruce in the slightest, manners, and social cues taking a backseat at the moment. 

“Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

Unshed tears prick the corners of Bruce’s eyes. The gravity of the situation finally dawning on him. He wipes them away with the back of his hand. When he speaks, his voice trembles. “You...you lied to me. Mom and dad...they...they…” Bruce trails off, unable to call them anything remotely bad. It feels like he’s betraying their memory, sullying it. 

Still, Bruce is seething and wanting to cry all at once. It’s a strange - but not entirely unfamiliar - feeling. 

Alfred wraps his arms around his young charge. “I am truly sorry, Master Bruce. I know that doesn’t undo all the hurt wel caused you. Your parents thought they were doing the right thing, and I can promise you they planned on telling you eventually.” 

Bruce heaves a shuddering breath like he’s doing his very best to stay somewhat composed.

Alfred bends down to Bruce’s height, grabbing him firmly by the biceps. “Now, I’m not going to stand here and try to pretend I know what you’re going through, and I don’t know how to make you feel better. But, please, please never forget your parents - blood or not - loved you. And, I will always love you like you are my own. Never forget that.” 

To hell with being strong, Bruce thinks before throwing his arms around Alfred. He buries his face in Alfred’s shoulder, effectively soaking the expensive material with his tears. Not that Alfred cares. He holds Bruce.

They stay like that for a good twenty minutes. 

It’s Harvey Bullock - of all people - that brings them back to reality. “Hey, Bruce, is it? Everything alright? Jim wanted me to check on you.”

Bruce sniffs, wiping away the remaining tears. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thank you,” he forces a polite smile.

Harvey doesn’t look like he buys it but accepts it all the same. “Alright kid. When you’re ready, Jim needs you back in the interrogation room.” He turns around, leaving Alfred and Bruce another minute or two to collect themselves.

“Now, Master B,” Alfred starts, straightening Bruce’s sweater, “I think you have someone waiting for you.”

“I think Detective Gordon can wait a moment longer.”

“I was not referring to Detective Gordon.” Alfred gestures behind Bruce. 

Bruce turns his head. 

Jerome is hovering in the doorway. Watching - staring at - Bruce intently. He smiles brightly when he catches Bruce’s eyes. 

He feels warm, bubbly. Giddiness, excitement...happiness. Emotions Bruce thought he’d never feel again. And all because he has a second chance - sort of.

Bruce gives a polite nod to Alfred; they would need to have a long conversation about the details surrounding his adoption, but that could wait. Alfred moves out of Bruce’s way.

“Please remember, Master B, that I’m always here for you. I’ll be waiting right here for you to finish.”

“Thank you, Alfred. Thank you,” his voice is barely audible. Though, Alfred seems to hear him just fine because Bruce swears he hears him say you’re welcome under his breath.


	5. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm soooo sorry I haven't updated. My only defense is that school has started back up, again. I appreciate every single comment, kudos, hit, and bookmark. Thank you, guys, :D
> 
> Trigger warning for this chapter: references to past child abuse
> 
> \------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jerome and Jim stare at one another. Each of them trying their damndest to analyze the other. The way Jim looks at him is not too dissimilar to the way some of the visiting patrons would look at him - with pity and disgust, and like he was an enigma to them. This was quite the change from an hour ago, where Jimbo didn’t look twice at him.

  
  


And considering that Jerome has done nothing wrong within the last few hours, it makes him decidedly nervous. Jim’s eyes are cold, lips pursed like he’s holding himself back from saying something. He knows, Jerome knows he knows. It’s obvious, but to be fair to himself, Jerome did expect to be caught sooner or later. 

  
  


....Guess it’s going to be sooner.

  
  


“Jerome, is there anything you might want to tell me before Bruce gets back?” Jim leans into Jerome’s personal space, voice uncharacteristically soft. 

  
  


Jim cares about Bruce.

  
  


It’s an obvious observation - why else would he make the connection between the Wayne murders and an unrelated adoption? Why else would Jim go out his way to reunite Bruce with Jerome? 

  
  


This, for some unexplainable reason, puts Jerome’s worries regarding Bruce to bed. Even if he never sees his little brother again, at least he knows Bruce is cared for. At least he can be certain Bruce will be protected.

  
  


Jerome leans back in his seat. “Is there anything I should tell you?” He glances about the room, tone intentionally oblivious. “Oh, I know! I had a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch.” 

  
  


Jim sends him a disapproving look.

  
  


“No, no, that isn’t right. Let’s see if I retrace my steps...I talked to Mr. Cirealo, fed Sheba, did the dishes, murdered my whore of a mother, washed the trailer’s windows, watched some of the performers put on make-up-”

  
  


“Wait! Repeat what you just said.”

  
  


“Watched some of the performers put on make-up?” Something within Jim dies a little bit, the light in his eyes dim just a bit, and Jerome is here for it.

  
  


“No before that,” Jim says exasperated.

  
  


“Oh, I got you, sorry. I washed the windows on the trailer. They get dirty fast.”

  
  


“Jerome. No, just no.” Jim cradles his head in his hands. Seemingly losing an internal battle to keep his cool. Jim recovers enough to ask, “before that...what did you do?”

  
  


“Well, I fed Sheba - you know, that snake that found my mother’s body.”

  
  


“After that.”

  
  


“I murdered my whore of a mother?”

  
  


“Yeah...that would be the one.” Jim pulls out his flip-phone and dials a number. “Lee,” he says after a moment. “Are you busy? Good, good. I need your help in interrogation room one. Alright, thanks...see you in a minute, bye.” Jim flips the phone shut.

  
  


“Is that your girlfriend?” Jerome places his chin on his clasped hands. “She is! Isn’t she? Oh...tell me everything. Where did you guys meet? Who kissed who first? No, no scratch that last one, that’s gross.”

  
  


“Jerome?”

  
  


“Speaking.”

  
  


“Shut up.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


\-----------------------------------------------------------------

A woman - Lee Thompkins, if memory serves - stands behind Jim. She has yet to utter a single word to Jerome. Her presence is comforting, motherly. Considering what he’s confessing too, that’s probably not a good thing.

  
  


Jim’s face is emotionless; it makes it damn near impossible to read him. Jerome makes a point to keep eye contact with the detective whenever feasible. 

  
  


Growing up, Jerome never really had any control over anything. His mother made absolutely sure he was thoroughly degraded, humiliated, alone…. 

  
  


But he wasn’t alone anymore, was he? Once Bruce heard how cruel their mother truly was he’d sympathize. He’d understand, right? Right?

  
  


By maintaining eye contact, Jerome feels slightly more powerful. Even if that power is just an illusion. 

  
  


Jim twists away from Jerome to whisper to Lee. When he turns back he refuses to make eye contact.

  
  


He’s uncomfortable. Good. Jerome smiles, folding his hands together on the table. 

  
  


“You would be really good at poker, Detective Gordon. If you ever get bored of playing cops, I have a few friends-”

  
  


“Jerome,” Jim says exhaustion clear in his voice. 

  
  


“-I could introduce you too; they’re poker experts. But their-”

  
  


“Jerome, will you please get back on topic.”

  
  


“-Poker faces have nothing on yours. Why are you so serious all the time? I mean…” He wants to keep rambling, anything to distract from the fact that he murdered his mother in cold blood. Whether she deserved it or not won’t matter to the legal system. For all Jerome knows, they could throw the whole damn book at him. A hundred years in Blackgate for killing a drunken whore; even dead, Jerome’s mother never ceased to make his life a living hell.

  
  


“We are not here to discuss me.” Jim opens the case file. The sudden urge to grab the file and tear up the contents is nearly overwhelming to Jerome. He balls his hands into fists and then smooths them down over the table. 

  
  


“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go on. I promise I won’t interrupt anymore.” He waves Jim off. It’s the best that Jerome can promise at the moment because his thoughts are racing, and when that happens all he wants to do is talk. 

  
  


“Right,” Jim clears his throat and sneaks a peek towards the doorway. “Let’s go over the worse of it before Bruce gets back. I don’t want the kid hearing what you did.” Jerome bristled at that.

  
  


“What do you mean ‘what I did’?” 

  
  


Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jim sighed heavily. “Jerome, you murdered your mother - Bruce’s mother too. How do you think he’s going to react when he hears you slaughtered her? Hm?”

  
  


Jerome dismisses the thought with a casual wave of the hand. “Oh, well, he’s not missing much. Honestly, I’m surprised he doesn’t remember the whore. She use to scream at him all the time - though she tended to scream at all of us: me, Bruce, and Jeremiah. Nasty person. Better-off never knowing her.”

  
  


“Right…” Jim shuffles papers. 

  
  


“Right!” Jerome says back with a little too much pep. “Anyways, I confessed. So won’t Bruce hear about it?” 

  
  


God, Jim really didn’t think this through did he? 

  
  


“He will, unfortunately, but not right now. And, you,” Jim looks pointedly at Jerome, “won’t breathe a word of this to him. Let him believe he has a semi-functional family for at least today.”

  
  


Jerome laughs…

  
  


……..and laughs……

  
  


…...and laughs 

  
  


Before he realizes that Jim isn’t yanking his chain. “You’re joking right.” He searches the detective’s face for any indication that he’s joking. Jim has been a stick in the mud the whole time, but maybe, just maybe, he has a wicked sense of humor hidden underneath all that stoicism. 

  
  


Jim stares blankly at Jerome.

  
  


“You-You’re not joking!?” 

  
  


“Keep your voice down. Of course, I’m not joking. Listen, I’m not saying you have to lie. Just, I don’t know, talk about yourself. Don’t bring up your mother, especially if it has to do with what she put you through. And, I am sorry you had to go through that Jerome. We - Dr. Thompkins and I were reading your medical records. No child should have to be put through that.”

  
  


Jerome feels hot all over like he’s been sitting in a hot car all day.

  
  


“While I can’t say I condone your actions, as you did hack your mother to death. I can say that it is understandable why you did what you did. Which is why Dr. Thompkins is going to send a mental evaluation to the court stating that you are mentally unfit to stand trial.”

  
  


Okay, that hurts a little. Jerome  _ can  _ stands trial. He isn’t broken. 

  
  


“What does that mean exactly?” The heat is slowly leaving Jerome’s body, but he’s voice comes out small and a little shaky. He coughs to clear his throat - it doesn’t help.

  
  


Lee speaks up. “It would mean that the trial would be put on hold indefinitely until you were proven mentally well enough to stand trial. You would be placed in Arkham until further notice.”

  
  


“Arkham?” 

  
  


What a weird name. 

  
  


“A mental rehabilitation center. You can get the mental help you need.”

  
  


“An insane asylum? You both want to send me to an insane asylum.” 

  
  


“Well, that’s one name for it. Arkham might not be the most conventional or nicest place to recover, but it is a million times better than the alternative.” Lee has a grim smile on her face. She speaks slowly, her voice is nicer to listen to than Gordon’s.

  
  


“Which is?” Jerome asks only because he knows they want him too.

  
  


“You stand trial are charged with first-degree murder and are given life in Blackgate.”

  
  


“I choose the first option. Sounds more pleasant.”

  
  


“Alright, I’ll get the papers to the courthouse by tomorrow.” Lee steps back.

  
  


“So...now that that’s settled. How are you gonna break the news to you-know-who?” They all cast their obligatory glance towards the empty doorway. “And, where is he anyway? He was headed back this way like an hour ago.”

“Harvey’s keeping him busy. He’s not great with kids, especially smart ones like Bruce, so let’s finish up here before I have to find a new partner.” Jim pulls out a sheet of paper from the case file. “I want you to write down as much as you can remember about the murder.” He passes it over along with a pen. 

  
  


Jerome reaches out to grab the items. 

  
  


“Please, don’t stab anybody,” Jim pleads as if he can read Jerome’s mind.

“No promises,” Jerome says dryly. Ignoring the concerned expressions tossed his way, Jerome sets pen to paper.


	6. Bruce Wayne and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Bruce leans against the wall, arms crossed, as Detective Bullock blabbers on-and-on about, what has to be, the sixth supply closet he’s shown, Bruce. He’s inside the closet clanking together and knocking over cleaning supplies.

“Detective Bullock?” 

Bullock shuffles out of the closet, a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. “What do you need kid?”

Bruce steps away from the wall and towards Bullock. “I appreciate you showing me around the precinct, but I really should be heading back, now.” He starts to turn away.

“No!” Bullock grabs Bruce’s arm. “I mean...you haven’t seen the breakroom yet. Or...or the other janitor’s closet.”

Bruce gives him an incredulous look. In all the time he’s known Detective Bullock, he’s never been this much of a nervous-wreck. He usually sports a devil-may-care attitude that Detective Gordon despises (if his long-suffering sighs when talking on the phone are anything to go by). 

“Uh, thank you for the offer. Maybe another time?” When no one grabs his arm, again, he takes that as his cue to leave.

\-------------------

The GCPD - for all the funding it gets from the city’s budget and donations - is quite rundown. Water spots decorate the wall in various criss-cross patterns. There’s the distinct smell of must and mildew that seems to always permeate the air. Bruce drags his fingers across the wall as he walks along, tracing grooves left in the concrete by an angry convict or disgruntled cop. 

It doesn’t take long to make it back to the interrogation room. A man, dressed in a black suit, stands facing the door. Bruce gives him a wide berth, awkwardly standing behind him. He deliberates between asking the man to introduce himself and continue walking down the hall. Sure, if he kept walking straight down the hall, he’d run into a dead end. People would think him strange - well more than they already do. Being an isolated, sheltered, billionaire, orphan would make anyone a tad bit odd.

“Hi, Bruce.” The man says unprompted. Bruce jerks backward, eyes going impossibly wide.

“How-how...who…” Bruce wants to slap himself for losing his composure in front of (behind?) the stranger.

The man chuckles turning to face Bruce. His eyes - which are (ironically) what his eyes are drawn to first - are blue, cloudy in appearance. “How do I know your name?”

Bruce nods, then realizes (after an uncomfortable amount of silence) the man’s cloudy eyes might indicate his blind, or very close to it. He hums an acknowledgment. 

“I’ve known you seen you were this big.” He cradles an imaginary baby in his arms. “Your mother, God rest her soul, loved you and your brothers so very much. When you got sick, she took you trailer-to-trailer asking if anyone could help you. It truly broke her heart when she put you up for adoption.”

Bruce stayed quiet, his brain processing all this new information. 

“Oh, my apologies, I’m Mr. Cicero. I’m the circus’ psychic.”

“Wait. Hold on just one second. Why did you say ‘God rest her soul’. Is she dead?” 

Mr. Cicero clears his throat and turns back to the door as if willing it to open.

“Is. She. Dead?” Bruce stomps over to the man. Even blind as he is, Mr. Cierco is an expert at knowing exactly how to avoid Bruce’s gaze. 

He can feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes. There’s a lump in his throat. His chest hurts and he can’t breathe. Anxiety getting the better of him, Bruce bangs his fists against the metal door.

The door opens.

Gordon is looking at Bruce like he’s lost his mind.

“Is it true,” Bruce says weakly, wanting to run away from and hurt Gordon in equal measure. 

“Is what true, Bruce?” He places a gentle hand on Bruce’s shoulder. 

“Is my mother dead?” Something guilty flashes in Gordon’s eyes, which is all the answer Bruce needs.

“She is and you knew.” Bruce shrugs the hand off his shoulder. “She’s dead, and you didn’t tell me!” He steps away from Gordon.

“Mr. Cicero will you please go take a seat, I’ll be in shortly.” Mr. Cicero walks between the pair, into the room, and out of sight.

“How-how did she die?” 

“Bruce we can talk more about this later.”

“How did she die?” Bruce insists, dread eating from the inside out.

“After I finish talking with Mr. Cicero we can talk about your mother, okay?”

“No! Tell me now.” Bruce inwardly cringes at the petulant tone of his voice.

Gordon is slowly losing his cool, hands balling into and out of fists. He heaves a heavy sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose, gaze moving upwards.

“What happened to her? Tell me now!” 

Like a holeless clay figurine that’s placed in the kiln, Gordon explodes. 

“She was murdered by Jerome. Is that what you wanted? Huh?” Detective Gordon - for all his many flaws - has never been intentionally cruel towards Bruce. This, for some reason, is what makes Bruce run - far, far away from Gordon and Jerome and Mr. Cicero and anyone or anything that reminds him of his previous life. 

“Bruce! I didn’t mean it. Come back!” Detective Gordon yells to his retreating form.

He doesn’t look back.

\---------

Alfred, as promised, is waiting patiently for him in the lobby. Bruce runs past him. He can’t face him at the moment, maybe later he can, but not right now. 

He makes it out of the GCPD and onto the street.

His head is spinning and he can’t stop crying and he feels so weak and lost and afraid and angry and betrayed and-

\------------

He’s in an alley, on the opposite side of town from the GCPD. It’s dark and Bruce can’t stop shivering. Selina hovers above him.

“What happened to you?” She pokes him with the toe of her boot. He jerks, remembering she was there.

“Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Listen, kid, I have things to do and I’d rather not come back to your dead body tomorrow.” She sits beside him. “So...spill.”

Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.


	7. Misery Loves Company

“You know Mr. Cicero, from the show,” Jim says shutting the door with way more force than needed. Lee hasn’t left her place the entire time, if the day has been getting to her, she doesn’t show it.

“Yes, sir. Hello, Mr. Cicero.” Jim narrows his eyes in Jerome’s direction. Why was he playing at being overly-polite? Everyone in this room knows that Jerome killed his mother. Everyone in this room knows what he’s capable of. It irks Jim more than it should, the incident with Bruce still at the forefront of his mind.

“Good evening, Jerome.” Mr. Cicero seems like a genuinely nice guy. Maybe not innocent - he did try to cover up his ex-lover and mother of his children’s brutal murder - but not the worse out of the circus bunch.

“Do you know why you're here, Mr. Cicero?” Jim busies himself with shuffling through some of the relevant pages in the case file. He wants this interview to be over already. Who knows where Bruce ran off to. Gotham is a dangerous place filled with miscreants and people with worse intentions.

“No, I can’t say I do.”

“Jerome here murdered his mother. You helped him clean up in your trailer. Now I can’t say for certain why, but I believe Mr. Cierco is your father.” If looks could kill, Jim would be six-feet under. Jerome glowers at him, the expression odd-looking on his usually smiling face.

“No, he’s not. My father was Sven Karlsen. He was a sea captain, he died at sea.” Despite the heat behind Jerome’s glare, there’s a pleading tone in his voice. And suddenly Jim can imagine that this fantasy that Lila made up was all Jerome had in terms of comfort for the majority of his childhood. Jim opens his mouth, unsure of how to proceed from there.

The door swings open. Harvey bursts in, out of breath, and frantic.

“Jim,” he starts between inhalations, “we’ve got a problem.”

“Bloody right we have a problem.” Alfred maneuvers around Harvey. “What did you say to my boy? He’s gone and ran away. I swear if you-”

“I didn’t do anything,” Jim defends himself, rising from his seat. “We just had a minor disagreement, I told him something I shouldn’t of, and he didn’t take it very well. Don’t worry we’ll find him.” Jim turns back to Jerome and Mr. Cicero. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but something came up. Jerome, Dr. Thompkins will get settled.” He sends Lee an apologetic smile.

“Wait! Hold the phone! If Bruce is missing, I’m helping.” Jerome stands from his seat and joins the impromptu group meeting.

“You can’t,” Jim says lamely. “You have that one thing you have to do.” His train of thought has stuttered to a stop.

“I wasn’t asking. I need to make sure my brother isn’t seriously harmed.” Jerome regards him with a cool stare. He turns to Alfred, demeanor changing from dangerous to concerned in the blink of an eye. “Hi, I’m Jerome, you must be Bruce’s guardian, Alfred was it?” Jerome sticks his hand out.

“Nice to meet you, and yes, that is correct.” Alfred takes the proffered hand, a polite smile gracing his features. “Well, I see no reason why Jerome, here, can’t help.”

“He...well he can’t because, uh…” Jim doesn’t want to ruin Jerome and Bruce’s future relationship (even more than he already had). Because, no doubt, Alfred would cut all contact if he knows Jerome is a cold-blooded killer. “Yeah, fine, go. I’ll get a couple of patrols to search too.” This feels like a bad idea.

“Good day, Detective Gordon, Dr. Thompkins.” Alfred nods to them before taking his leave.

“Peace out girl scouts.” Jerome follows closely behind Alfred, giggling at his parting remark.

Definitely a bad idea.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Selina is next to him, and she’s being more attentive than usual. This is strange but Bruce can’t spare any mental capacity to figure out if there are any ulterior motives at play. She pats his right knee.

“Wow, that’s rough.”

“Yeah, uh, thank you for listening, Selina.” Bruce feels off-kilter like his whole world has been thrown from its axis, shattering anything and everything that he's ever known.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it. Now c’mon, I’m not leaving you out here to fend for yourself.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Then stick close to me, kid. It won’t be my fault if you fall behind,” Selina says pulling him to his feet. Without another word, she turns away from Bruce and heads to the nearest fire escape.

For a moment Bruce just stands there, blinking sluggishly. He yawns, rubbing at his eyes.

Selina looks him over from her place perched on the fire escape. She sighs, descending the ladder with more grace and speed than any Olympic athlete. Her feet don’t make a sound as they hit the pavement.

Bruce’s numb and cold and he wants to go home so bad but he can’t because -

“That’s it! I’m taking you home.”

Bruce, finally breaking out of his daze, opens his mouth to apologize.

“Save it. It’s fine.” Through the harshness of her words, there’s an underlying note of genuine concern and civility that, had Bruce been in any other mood, he would have been more appreciative.

He wants to argue. Drag his feet and refuse to leave the alley. But Selina is stronger than Bruce has given her credit for, or maybe a part of him wants to have a reason to go home.

Selina herds him to the mouth of the alley. “Do you have any money on you?”

“Yeah.” He clumsily reaches into his pants pocket. Bruce pats his thighs, a look of panic crossing his face. “Oh, no. I think I left it at home. Uh, sorry, Selina.”

“Guess we’re walking then. Wayne Manor is on the other side of the city, so unless you want to call Alfred, let’s go.” Selina grabs onto one of his arms, pulling him further into the city.

The city hordes are thinning out. Most people know what awaits anyone out past sunset, Gotham is no place to frolic in the moonlight. People - the ones still meandering about - don’t spare them a second glance. And - besides the occasional shout of watch it - they are left alone.

Selina weaves through the city with expertise that could only come from someone that grew up on the streets. If not for her hold on Bruce’s arm, he would have lost her long ago.

Gotham, for lack of a better term, is beautiful. Bruce marvels at all the skyscrapers hovering over all that reside within the city-limits like overgrown trees. They pass by Wayne Plaza, one of the most majestic buildings in all of Gotham - if not all of New Jersey. Every little nook and cranny has been meticulously planned out, arranged in such a way that is both practical and stylish.

Bruce smiles stupidly up at it as they pass.

\------------------------------------------

“So...you’re Bruce’s guardian and butler? How does that work?” Jerome asks trying his hardest to not freak out, because Bruce is out there and if anyone touches a hair on his perfect, little head, Jerome is going to -

“Well, they are separate duties, mostly. I clean the house and watch over Master Bruce, as I have always done. The only difference now is that I’m the one that provides emotional support or advice when needed,” Alfred says eyes focusing intently on the road ahead. He swallows hard, fingers twitching ever so slightly against the steering wheel.

Jerome watches the city pass by in uncolorful blurs. With every passing minute, his heart rate increasing. His mind flickers with all the possibilities of what ol’ McJimbo told Bruce to make him run away. He hopes - no, prays (though, he’s not the religious type) - that Bruce hasn’t been informed on who exactly killed their mother.

“How long have you,” he draws a lazy circle in the air with his pointer finger, “you know, worked for the Waynes?”

“16 years. I knew Thomas first. Didn’t meet Martha for over a year - she was always a way attending charity events and gala,” Alfred says fondly.

“Why did they adopt Bruce?” Jerome has an inkling why, but it would be nice to get the full picture.

“If I’m being perfectly honest, I have no idea. Beyond them being unable to bear children, though I never did venture to ask if that was the reason why. All I know is that, eight years ago, they brought home, Bruce. I think he was four at the time, shyest little tyke.”

“Good,” Jerome replies sulkily, turning to face the window. Alfred takes note of Jerome’s reaction.

“He had a hard time adjusting. Bruce use to try to run away. When asked where he was going. He always said the same thing, ‘home’.” Jerome perks up the tiniest bit. “No matter how hard we tried to convince him otherwise, he remained steadfast in the knowledge that home was where ‘Rome and ‘Miah were. Now I hadn’t the faintest idea at the time who or what he was referring to, could never get him to clarify.”

“What made him stop?”

“Mrs. and Mr. Wayne decided to seek outside help in getting Bruce use to the new environment. One of their associates, Dr. Strange, I believe his name was.” Alfred shook his head. “His name fits him like a glove. Bruce hated being around him, use to hide in the servants quarters before each visit.”

All the blood left Jerome’s face. “Did he hurt Bruce? Was he ever left alone with him?” Thoughts of his own upbringing are swirling around in his head.

“No, no, of course not. One adult or another was always nearby. Dr. Stranger never laid a finger on Bruce,” Alfred reassures Jerome sensing his growing unease.

“You don’t have to touch someone to hurt them.”


	8. Tea and Sandwiches Make For Excellent Snacks While Watching the World Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mentions of child abuse.
> 
> Thank you all for the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and hits, I appreciate every single one of them! With that said, here is another chapter filled with more angst than I intended. Enjoy :D  
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s early morning by the time Alfred pulls up to the manor. He hasn’t given up on locating Bruce, he just needs to regroup, and Jerome - who has finally passed out in the passenger seat after searching high-and-low for Bruce - needs some sleep. 

  
  


Tomorrow, after they find Bruce and Jerome gets a goodnight sleep, Alfred will deliver him back to Gordon’s custody. Honestly, as helpful as the detective can be at times, he only seems to bring with him hurt and disappointment for his boy.

He puts the car into park, the clicking of the gear selector jolts Jerome awake. The teenager jumps - as far back as his seatbelt would permit him - upon seeing Alfred. Clumsily, Jerome fumbles to unbuckle.

  
  


“Jerome, I’m not going to hurt you.”    
  


Jerome slumps back into his seat, crossing his arms. “I know. It’s just we still haven’t found Bruce, and it looks like a whole night has passed with no sign of him.”

  
  


Ah, okay, that makes sense. Jerome isn’t scared of  _ him.  _ He’s scared of losing Bruce. Understandable, in Alfred’s eyes, considering that he shares a similar fear. After Martha and Thomas died, his whole world fell apart. If it wasn’t for Bruce’s constant presence, and his need for Alfred’s help and guidance, Alfred isn’t entirely sure he’d still be around.

  
  


“Yes, well, you need sleep, and I need to contact Gordon.” Alfred unbuckles his seatbelt, opening the door.

  
  


“Sleep? Are you serious,” Jerome says once they’re both out of the car. “My baby brother is out there somewhere, probably dead or something!” He waves his arms wildly. “You know the kind of people that are out there. People that...that...well you know.”

  
  


“Yes, unfortunately,” he mutters. “Still, you need to get some rest. You’ll be of no help to Bruce if you’re sleep-deprived. Now c’mon.” Alfred’s tone leaves little room for argument, although he sees Jerome processing it anyway - seeing exactly how he can fire-back.

  
  


He gives up, allowing Alfred to lead him into the manor. 

\----------------------------------

“I really must apologize, we weren’t expecting any guests. So, it might be a little messy,” Alfred frets taking Jerome’s coat - whose eyes are alight with child-like wonder. Never in all his eighteen years of traveling coast to coast with the circus, has Jerome ever seen a house so big or so clean. Well, maybe once, but did it really count if the house was on the TV? 

  
  


“It’s totally fine. This house is amazing. Is it just the two of you that live here?” Jerome asks spinning in a wide, slow circle to take in even more of the room. 

  
  


“Yes. Right this way,” Alfred gestures to down the hall. “Keep going down the hall, make a right, then go into the first door on your left.”

  
  


“Got it. Lost it, can you please repeat it?”

  
  


Alfred pinches the bridge of his nose.

  
  


“Just kidding, Jeeves. Uh, thank you for letting me crash here for the night.” Jerome feels awkward unused to having anything or anyone to show gratitude for. 

  
  


“It’s no problem, mate. Go on, I’ll bring some sandwiches and tea around in a bit.” Alfred heads off into a different hallway.

  
  


Jerome finds it hard to resist the urge to slide his hand against the wall as he walks. He manages, somehow, but he might have slipped up when he noticed a particularly textured portion of the wall. 

  
  


The room, at least, he hopes it’s the room Alfred meant to send him to, is spacious (much like the rest of the house), yet cozy. Despite the cleanliness level rivaling his mom’s trailer after she made him scrub it top-to-bottom until his fingers were numb - her breathing down his neck scrutinizing his work, taking shot after shot of cheap vodka - it looks very much lived-in. 

  
  


And, oh god, he forgot all about that. Bruce is going to freak when he sees him, and if he happens to do that in front of Alfred, Jerome will be lucky to be allowed within two-thousand miles of Bruce.

  
  


He  _ needs  _ to find him first. 

  
  


Alfred’s humming, making his way towards the study. Jerome’s brain short-circuits, and he makes a break for the window. He has it open when the door swings wide. The humming abruptly stops.

  
  


“Just where in the bloody hell do you think you’re going?”

  
  


“I needed some fresh air, sorry.” Jerome slowly shuts the window, leaving it unlocked in case he needs to make a break for it.

  
  


“I can see where Bruce gets it from, now.” Alfred sets the tray of sandwiches and tea on the coffee table. 

  
  


“Gets what?”

  
  


“His lack-luster ability to lie on demand.” Alfred pours the tea. “Any milk or sugar for yours?”

  
  


“Some sugar, please. And, hey! I’ll have you know my lying capabilities are exceptional. Oscar-worthy, even.” Jerome takes a seat, next to Alfred. 

  
  


“I’m sure,” Alfred says somehow keeping a straight-face. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll be taking my leave.” He stands, heading to the door.

  
  


“Yes, actually, can you seat with me for a second.”

  
  


“Of course. But only for a moment or two, I really do have to call Detective Gordon.”

  
  


\--------------------------------

“So, after Bruce adjusted or whatever to this, what was he like?” Jerome sips his tea, making tiny, appreciative sounds at the taste.

  
  


“Quiet, curious, smart. Too smart for his own good, at times, I fear. Use to give his mother and father quite the run for their money.”

  
  


“I can imagine. He probably got that from ‘Miah - my twin brother. He was always reading these long-ass books to Bruce for bedtime. We would sneak into whatever town we were in, go to the library, and steal a book or two. ‘Miah always chose the biggest, most pretentious book. I once asked Bruce if he ever got bored with our brother’s pick of bedtime stories. Can you guess what he said?” The distant memories of bedtime stories and holding hands while he fell asleep and kissing Bruce’s forehead when he finally conked out - laying between both Jeremiah and Jerome on their shared twin-mattress, a ratty comforter being the only real source of warmth for all three of them - comes back to Jerome. 

  
  


Alfred shakes his head. 

  
  


“He said he didn’t care what ‘Miah read to him, because he just likes spending time with him. At the time, I thought it was cheesy but also kinda sweet. I didn’t think about the consequences of Bruce listening to chapters of engineering, law, and mathematic books.” 

  
  


“Mathematics?”

  
  


“Yeah, once or twice, Jeremiah pulled out this math textbook and started reading out problems. If 3y-6x=12, what is x? And on and on, each problem getting more convoluted, but Bruce absolutely loved it. Asked for it every single night, I had to threaten to burn the book if Jeremiah continued to insist on reading it aloud. A guy can only hear about Pythagoras so many times before he contemplates murder,” Jerome finishes his little spiel with a smile. Alfred shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  
  


“I can take your cup if you’d like.” He takes Jerome’s cup - now completely empty - from his hands. 

  
  


“Uh, thank you. Have a goodnight,” Jerome calls to Alfred’s retreating back.

  
  


“You as well,” Alfred says back politely.

  
  


\----------------------------------

Jerome is passed out on the couch, a wool blanket covers his sleeping-form. A fire’s roaring in the fireplace, all other light has long since been snuffed out by Alfred.

  
  


There’s a distant scratching coming from outside, sounding closer and closer with each passing minute. Jerome stirs, eyes snapping open to find the source of the noise. He sits up, the blanket falling away.

  
  


He hears it again, this time right outside the window. Jerome ducks down, crawling to hide behind the couch facing the windows. The window barely makes a sound as it opens. The only indication that it has is the cool breeze that circulates the room. 

  
  


“Thanks, again Selina, are you sure you don’t want to stay the night? We have plenty of guest rooms.” That’s Bruce’s voice. 

  
  


Jerome perks up.

  
  


“No. I have things to do. Tell Alfred I said hi. See ya, around, kid. And, uh, good luck with your situation or whatever.” 

The window clicks shut. Light footsteps cross the room, stopping just short of Jerome’s hiding place. “Alfred?” Bruce calls out, stepping further into the room. When there’s no response, Bruce takes a seat on the couch. 

  
  


Taking a shaky breath, Jerome leaves the safety of his hiding place - deciding that facing Bruce head-on is his best bet.

  
  


Bruce has grabbed the blanket that had been covering Jerome just moments earlier. He’s wrapped himself up, the wool swallowing him whole. Jerome clears his throat to get his brother’s attention. Bruce goes still, turning to look at him.

  
  


Bruce screams, loudly.


	9. Don't Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Jerome and Bruce finally discuss their mother's murder.

Jerome lunges forward, covering Bruce’s mouth with both his hands.  There’s a struggle - one that’s over very quickly, thanks to their size difference, Bruce’s inexperience with fighting, and the fact that he’s still wrapped up in a thick, wool blanket.

“Shush!” Jerome puts a finger to his lips.  “Let me explain.” Bruce tries fruitlessly to wiggle backward out of the hold.  “Please, Bruce,” he pleads.

Bruce reluctantly nods, seeing no other way out of this.

“Now, if I remove my hand, you won’t scream, okay?”

Bruce lets out a muffled okay into Jerome’s palm.  It’s not entirely reassuring to Jerome but it’ll have to do.  The hurt in Bruce’s eyes makes him want to take it all back.  The killing. The lying. The use of unnecessary force.  It makes Jerome want to hold him close and - while not really apologize (he did have a reason to do most of those things, after all) - offer comforting words, something, anything to get Bruce to stop looking at him like a kicked-puppy.  But he’s already pushing his luck here, Bruce was on edge, no doubt waiting for his chance to run away.

He settles back on his knees, giving Bruce space.

“I’m assuming Jimbo told you about the whole mom thing, huh?” It’s probably not the best way to start-off their heart-to-heart, but it’s the best he can come up with.  Although, to his benefit, Jerome tries to keep his tone somber and serious, despite the words being just about the opposite.

“Yeah,” Bruce says, eyes searching Jerome.  Analyzing him, examining him, maybe, Jerome doesn’t know.  He wants to ask what Bruce sees.  It can’t be anything good because, one, no one ever sees anything in him beyond his occasional, admittedly cruel, schemes and inappropriate-timed jokes.  Yet, there’s a glimmer of hope in Bruce’s eyes, like he wants to believe Jerome isn’t a horrible, awful person.  “He did. Can you please elaborate?  Detective Gordon can be rash when upset. I want to understand.”

Jerome takes a few deep breaths to collect his thoughts.  Launching into an attack on their mother’s character - no matter how well-deserved - wouldn’t get his point across.

“My... sorry...our mother was an alcoholic.” Jerome watches Bruce intently, gauging his reactions.  “Which, I will be the first to admit, doesn’t mean she deserved to be murdered.  There were countless alcoholics and drug addicts but that’s beside the point.  What made her stand out was her ability to be a shitty mom.” Bruce jerks even further backward.  “Sorry, Kiddo,” he says with genuine sincerity. “What I meant was that our mom’s methods of punishment were downright cruel, to the point that I’m surprised I’m here today.”

“What did she do?” His voice wavers.  For once, since their reunion, Jerome is reminded of how young Bruce still is.  He needs to step carefully, if not to save their relationship, to protect whatever childish innocence his brother may have.

“She...she…” how to explain the complexities of abuse and addiction to a child?  “Do you remember living with us?” He asks instead.

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut, face scrunching up in concentration.  If they weren’t currently having a serious conversation about him murdering their mother, Jerome might even find it kind of cute.

“No. Well, maybe...I have memories of something, but I’m not sure if they’re anything of worth.”

“Can you tell me about these memories?  I could try and help,” Jerome offers, scooting closer to Bruce until his knees are brushing against Bruce’s shoes.  He rests his arms on Bruce’s lap.  If their proximity bothers Bruce, he doesn’t show it.

“I remember the smell of alcohol.”

“Good. Let’s start with that, okay?” Bruce nods.  “Our mother liked to drink a lot, all day, all night. Really the only time she was sober was during a performance, and even then it was hit-or-miss.”

“She was an alcoholic. I don’t think that warrants murder.” There’s something in Bruce’s tone like he’s trying to put two-and-two together but still coming up short.

That’s okay, Jerome thinks, he’ll get there eventually.

“Yes, yes she was. And, you are absolutely right, her being an alcoholic should have zero to do with why she was murdered - and it doesn’t.  No, the reason I killed her. Listen, Bruce, she was a horrible person.  Do you know what abuse is?” Jerome digs his fingers into Bruce’s sweater, not roughly, just enough to distract himself from the onslaught of memories threatening to overwhelm him.

“Abuse is the improper usage or treatment of a thing, often to unfairly or improperly gain benefit.”

“Well, that’s the dictionary definition.  I wanna know what you think abuse is, in your own words.” The word ‘abuse’ weighs heavy on his tongue, it feels wrong.  Jerome knows that what his mom did, what his uncle did, what the entire circus and his mom’s countless, revolving door of lovers did could be the example under said dictionary definition.

“Uh...when someone who’s in a position of authority exerts control over someone who’s in a weaker, more helpless position to cause them harm.”

“Better. Our mother liked to drink - a lot - as I said, and when she did, Lila.  That’s our mother's name, in case you missed that.  Lila was cruel on a good day while sober, so you can imagine what she was like while drunk.” Why was this so hard?  Jerome feels like he’s being condescending towards Bruce.  Sure, the kid has been sheltered for the majority of his childhood, but surely that shouldn’t mean Bruce is stupid.  He seems smart enough. Jeremiah and Bruce would get along swimmingly.  It’s a bitter thought because the idea of sharing anything with his twin, even their own brother’s attention, makes him want to tear his hair out.  Jeremiah always, always, got his way when they were growing up.  This - Bruce - is something that could be just his.

“She hurt you. Why? I thought parents are supposed to love their children.  Was she...was she always like that?” The shaky voice is enough to jolt Jerome back to the present moment.  Oh, Bruce, sweet, precious, naive Bruce.

“Yes. And, honestly? I don’t think she ever had a valid reason to hurt me or you or Jeremiah or anyone, really.  Maybe there was a time before any of us were born where Lila was a nice person.  Although, it’s my incredible, humble opinion that she was born evil.  Came out of the womb plotting world domination.” Jerome chuckles lowly to himself, the mental picture to humorous to ignore.

Bruce worries at his bottom lip, seemingly considering Jerome’s words.

“Who’s Jeremiah?” He asks after a beat or two.

Oh, shit.


	10. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

“He’s one of the circus performer’s kids, use to come over a lot. You guys bonded over the nerdiest things. He moved away.” It’s a stupid, risky lie because if Alfred has a half-decent memory then he’ll remember their earlier conversation where he mentioned Jeremiah, and if he and Bruce compare notes, he’s effectively ruined their relationship. Oh, well can’t back out now. 

  
Jerome is the epitome of calm and collected. He shrugs his shoulders, effectively waving off Bruce’s question. Maybe it isn’t the ‘correct’ thing to do, but c’mon what other option does he have, tell Bruce the truth? And, what? Risk Bruce gravitating towards his less-homicidal but still mentally unstable twin. They’ll bond while Jerome rots away for the rest of his days in an overcrowded, underfunded insane asylum. Maybe if he’s lucky they’ll remember to visit him from time-to-time. 

  
Bruce troubles his bottom lip - a habit that Jerome is slowly picking up on - and considers his words. He sweeps his eyes over to the fireplace, flames reflecting beautifully in his irises, back to Jerome’s face. 

  
“I suppose that makes sense,” he says thoughtfully, scooting over on the couch. “Sit,” he demands in the least assertive tone Jerome has ever heard. “Please,” Bruce adds quickly.

  
“Alright, but only ‘cause you asked so nicely.” Admittedly, internally, he’s celebrating. Bruce is not outwardly rejecting him. Which he doesn’t totally understand. Jerome understands even less when Bruce offers him part of the blanket.

  
He holds the soft, warm fabric loosely between his fingers. “What? Why did you give me this?” It comes out sounding rude, Jerome opens his mouth to explain himself. 

  
“A blanket? I want to sit with you, talk with you for a little while longer before Alfred takes you back to Detective Gordon. And it’s cold, even with the fire. I thought, maybe we could share the blanket. You don’t have to, just thought I would offer. If you want your own blanket, I’m sure I can-”

  
“Bruce? It’s fine. I would love to sit with you and share a blanket with you. Just, uh, a heads-up I’m a little jumpy when it comes to physical touch.” The look of absolute fury at the subtle mention of the abuse he suffered that flashes in Bruce’s eyes makes Jerome feel more at ease. 

  
He slides in next to Bruce, taking the proffered blanket. There’s a whole cushion between them - the blanket is stretched end-to-end - but Jerome doesn’t know if he can handle being touched more than a few seconds at a time, even if it comes with the best of intentions. Bruce doesn’t seem to mind too much. He sits quietly, leaning against the armrest.

  
Jerome follows suit, all the exhaustion of the past day-and-a-half hitting him in full force.

  
“Are you tired?” Bruce isn’t looking in his direction at all, instead of staring blankly at the window from which he crept back into the house. Whoever brought Bruce home - and by default, back to Jerome - has his eternal gratitude. Should he buy them a fruit basket? Make them a card - arts and crafts isn’t really his thing (the pieces of glitter that were a semi-permanent fixture within his mother and his’ trailer ten years out from a mothers’ day gift gone wrong is proof of that)? 

  
“Who brought you home?” 

  
“Oh. A good friend of mine, Selina.” In the low-light of the fire, Jerome can’t make out if Bruce is blushing or not. But by the way, he says her name, like he’s in awe of her, Jerome comes to his own conclusion.

  
“Ah, okay. And, to answer your earlier question: yes, I am absolutely, positively, dog-tired. Not that I could sleep if I tried.” The laugh he gives comes out sounding sad. God, how long has it been since he’s had a half-decent night's sleep? Jerome can’t remember. Was it before Jeremiah left? Before Bruce was hospitalized? 

  
Back a long, long time ago - when they were still a semi-functional family - Jerome slept a little easier. Not that their situation wasn’t dire - Lila has always been a hop, skip, and jump away from doing the unthinkable. Cruelty ran through her veins, if she were a superhero her weakness would be compassion. That’s beside the point, sleeping side-by-side with his brothers provided him a sense of security - a false sense of security (Bruce nor Jeremiah could hardly throw a punch) - but security all the same. When their mother brought her “friends” around, having them there made the night go by faster. He didn’t have to focus all his attention on the ceiling above and pretend he couldn’t hear the obnoxious screaming and loud thuds coming from the next room. If he happened to get scared at night, often, so was Bruce, so was Jeremiah. Reaching out for either of them, finding an awaiting, sweaty hand helped calm him. If he held Bruce’s hand - always tightly because the thought of letting go, of him slipping away, had always been a fear of Jerome’s - he’d rub circles on the back of it with his thumb, a habit that soothed Bruce and Jerome. Jeremiah and he rarely held hands outside of before Bruce was born and times when either one needed something to hold on to.

  
He often found himself reaching across the small - smaller now (he couldn’t begin to imagine how all three of them would have fit - an expanse of old mattress. His hands fumbling, hoping to come in contact with the tiniest piece of cloth or bare skin or something - anything to make him feel a little less alone. He never did, of course, but Jerome never stopped reaching.

  
“Is there anything I can do to help? I could read you a story?” Bruce gets to his feet, throwing Jerome more of the blanket. The childish enthusiasm that overtakes Bruce, makes whatever smartass thing Jerome wants to say shatter into a million-pieces, evaporating into nothingness. “I know just the one. I’ll be right back, okay?” The statement is entirely useless - Bruce is literally five feet away - but it means the absolute world to Jerome. That tiny reassurance of promised-presence, of compassion. 

  
His heart suddenly hurts. Not in an ‘I’m having a heart attack,’ kinda way, more in the ‘I really fucked-up,’ kind of way. All his life, Jerome thought there was no one, nothing that would be worth staying sane, staying on the ‘right-side’ of the law for. Lila got what she deserved, Jerome doesn’t regret swinging the ax down into her head. Really, honestly, she deserved worse. 

  
Still, that - horrible, awful, nasty - woman was Bruce’s mom as well. The same boy who witnessed his parents (and god does that pain Jerome to say) get gunned down. The same boy who sat in their blood for god knows how long before someone called for help. The same boy who - while on-edge, at first - still heard him out. Jerome feels…

  
…...guilty 

  
Huh? Weird, probably best to forget about it. Bury it deep, deep down. He’ll forget it eventually, the feeling will go away.

  
Jerome can’t, and he knows it won’t.

  
“Here it is,” Bruce says holding up a chapter-book. “The Lion, the Witch, and The wardrobe.” Jerome must pull a face, because Bruce is quickly rambling, telling him everything without spoiling the contents.

  
“I think I’ll learn to love it. Who knows, might even be my new favorite book.” Bruce beams, sliding back into his place. He sits closer to Jerome, not necessarily touching him but near enough that if he moved an inch, his fingertips would brush against Jerome’s. 

  
Bruce opens to the first page. “Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy.”

\--------------------------------------------------

Jerome falls asleep around the third chapter, slumping over the armrest and taking more of the blanket with him. 

  
Bruce sighs, dog-earring the book (a tactic that his mother had instructed him time-and-time again not to do) and shutting it. He stands to his feet. A warm hand, loose in its grip pulls him back.

  
“Don’t leave,” Jerome mutters, words nearly slurred beyond comprehension. “Please.” Bruce sinks into the couch, maintaining the distance between them because he really doesn’t want to test Jerome’s boundaries.

  
“I won’t, Jerome. I promise I won’t.”

  
\------------------------------------------------------

Jerome doesn’t stop talking in his sleep until it’s very nearly morning. Light streams in from the windows. Bruce carefully untangles himself from the blanket to walk across the study to close the curtains. Sleep’s important, and Jerome definitely needs a minute or two more of it.

Besides, he needs to tell Alfred he’s okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all the hits, comments, bookmarks, and kudos. I promise I treasure every single one of them.


	11. Chapter 11

Jerome wakes up alone, sweaty, and with his heart-racing. The dream - although, judging by his current state, it’d be more accurate to assume, nightmare - he had been having alludes him. Something involving Bruce or his mother or Jeremiah or -

  
  


“Oh, good you’re awake.” Alfred sets a tray on the coffee table before him. French toast, bacon, and fresh fruit sit on the platter. “Master Bruce is currently sleeping, but after you eat Detective Gordon is coming to collect you” Compared to last night, he seems more mechanical, less caring. Then it hits Jerome.

  
  


“Did Detective Gordon…”

  
  


“Tell me why he was questioning you? Yes. Master Bruce and I had an early-morning chat over just that.” Jerome awkwardly munches on some bacon, social cues taking a backseat to hunger. “He doesn’t understand why they have to lock you up. Doesn’t understand that you’re mentally ill. Nothing wrong with that, just…” Alfred clears his throat, “just, uh, it’s probably for the best you never see each other again.”

  
  


The bacon falls to the plate below. “Did he say that?” Because, good god, if Bruce never wanted to see him ever again. What was the point? 

  
  


“No.” Alfred seats himself on the couch across from Jerome. “But as his guardian, the person his parents entrusted with his wellbeing, I say it could be detrimental to him if you remain in contact.”

  
  


“I’m gonna stop you right there, Jeeves. The Waynes were not Bruce’s parents. They might have loved him, taken care of him, but they weren’t family.”

  
  


Alfred regards him with a cold look. “They may not have been blood, but they were family in every way that it mattered. He was adopted into the family, yes, but that is just as legitimate as being born into it.”

  
  


It took everything in Jerome to stay calm. “Not disagreeing or anything, Jeeves, but why did they have to brainwash him or give him therapy sessions with a crack job doctor just to convince him of that exact thing. Why couldn’t they have waited for him to get comfortable enough in the new environment? Hm? Because any normal, rational, caring adoptive parent - or parents, in this case - would respond to the child’s need accordingly. And maybe that includes therapy with a licensed therapist or giving them space or talking through it. I grew up in the fucking circus, and even I knew that.”

  
  


“Are you finished, Mr. Valeska?” Okay, seriously, fuck this guy! How in the hell is he so calm and collected? Jerome’s first guess would be he’s a robot, but Alfred has too much personality. He’ll have to solve that mystery another day because Alfred’s looking at him like he’s expecting an answer.

  
  


“Yeah.”

  
  


“Good. If I could finish what I have to tell you. While it is my recommendation and Detective Gordon’s that you cut contact with Bruce and stay in Arkham for the rest of your life, we know that isn’t entirely ethical. He told me the circumstances surrounding the murder.” Alfred clears his throat, fingers twitching at an almost imperceptible rate. “Truly a shame that you had to resort to such barbaric methods to free yourself. And while it was wrong, it is understandable - on some level - that you did what you did. Master Bruce and I agree on that much. He’s lost so much. I refuse to make him lose anyone else. So, Detective Gordon and I have reached an agreement.”

  
  


Jerome leans forward, elbows digging into his knees. His chin laying on the back of his closed fists. “Do go on,” he says putting-on a god-awful British accent. If Alfred is at all bothered by the blatant display of mockery, he doesn’t show it.

  
  


“Well, first, if you accept the deal, you will be required to stay in Arkham for the first two weeks of each month. The third week will be spent at a mental health clinic outside of Gotham. And the last week or two, depending on the month can be spent either here, at the GCPD under Detective Gordon’s supervision, or back at Arkham.”

  
  
  


“Mental health clinic outside of Gotham?” The idea of being locked away further from Bruce than just across town is a definite no. He’s gone years thinking his brother was dead, so neither hell nor high water will convince him to leave Gotham. Besides, he needs to find his other brother, the traitor. 

  
  


Alfred has the tone of someone that’s done with life, old, slightly exasperated. “Yes, Arkham isn’t the best in its treatment of inmates. And, we do want you to get better. They’re cleaner, safer, less crowded, and better funded. Honestly, if it were up to me, I would keep you out of Arkham.” He shakes his head at the ground. “Nasty place that is. Not trying to scare you, of course, just be prepared, okay?” Was Alfred concerned? About him, of all people. Color him shocked. 

  
  


“I’ll agree to it,” Jerome says. He really didn’t want to, but something told him that bartering wasn’t really on the table. “So, I guess now I go back to Gordon?” Alfred solemnly nods, standing to his feet. “Alright, can I say goodbye to Bruce?”

  
  


“No, he’s sleeping. I’ll pass that on after he wakes up. Jim’s coming to pick you up…”

  
  


A doorbell, shrill, echoes through the house.

  
  


“And that must be him. On you go.” Jerome gets to his feet and heads for the door. “Oh, and Jerome?” He freezes, body half out the door. Jerome looks back at Alfred who’s trying his best to remain stoic. “Please be safe, don’t get into any more trouble.”

  
  


“No promises, Jeeves.” And then he’s on his own, walking the halls of Wayne Manor into the front room, and right into the arms of Gordon. 

  
  


He opens his mouth, Jerome waves him off. “C’mon, Jimbo,” He says movenoring around the visibly shocked detective. If Gordon had anything to say to him beyond the mandatory “put your hands behind your back” or “duck your head” he kept it to himself. 

  
  


And, despite being driven to (possibly) the worst insane asylum in modern history, Jerome can’t help but feel like this is a new beginning. 

\-----------------------------------------------------

As the days turn to months, Jerome can honestly say he’s making progress. For the first time in his life, he has stability, which he oddly likes, even as boring as it can get. Arkham, as expected, is not a place Jerome wants to spend the rest of his life in. And, remembering this, often makes Jerome feel a tad bit faint when recalling the plan Detective Gordon, Alfred, and Bruce put in place to prevent that very thing from happening. 

  
  


As per their agreement, Jerome spent two weeks here, in Arkham. Two weeks were spent with Bruce - somehow, someway Bruce managed to convince Alfred, and eventually Jim, that Jerome’s mental health would be helped by being around a positive influence, or some bullshit like that. Alfred agreed on the condition that Jerome’s therapist continues to see him every other day. 

  
  


Outside of being obligated to sit in Arkham for two weeks straight, the agreement works well enough. He has his own room at Wayne Manor, it’s across the hall from Bruce’s. Jerome will never be able to make Alfred nor Bruce understand how grateful he is for their kindness, but he can try. Making Bruce smile, and on the rare occasion, even laugh feels like a victory in some unwinnable war against the stoicism and brooding nature his little brother was quickly adopting. Helping Alfred out with cleaning seemed to make him likable enough to keep around.

  
  


While Bruce attended school, which (according to Alfred) was another - separate - part of the deal that Bruce had to hold to, they chatted over piles of rumpled clean-linen. Most often the conversations pertained to Jerome’s childhood and Alfred’s involvement in a great many wars. Others, they drifted from one topic to another, never really tacking themselves to any one topic in particular. Then, at precisely three O’clock Alfred would rise, tell Jerome he’d be back soon and hurried out the door.

  
  


Without fail every single day, Bruce would light up upon seeing Jerome, a smile brightening up his doll face. Forgoing any semblance of faux maturity that has been forced upon him by the grown-ups in his life, Bruce would run full-force to him, wrapping his arms around him. His head only came up to Jerome’s chest, so, of course, Jerome has to bend down to hug him properly. 

  
  


He keeps replaying those memories over-and-over to get through each day in Arkham. Richard Sionis, some big shot CEO that Gordon also caught and the leader of a large portion of the criminally insane, slams his fist down on the table in front of Jerome. Jerome, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. 

  
  


“Jerome?” Jerome looks up at him. “See that blonde walking in? I want you to convince her to join our group.” Usually, Jerome wouldn’t hesitate to hurt anyone who bossed him around like that, but if he wants Sionis’ protection he’ll have to play nice (for now). 

  
  


Without another word, he slides out from his place at the table. Casually, he makes his way over to Blondie, whistling some tune he doesn’t remember the name of. She’s pretty, in the conventional kind of way. He guesses she’s murdered her husband or something for life insurance, as there are a few of those types running around Arkham. 

  
  


“Hiya, Gorgeous! I’m Jerome,” he says with as much enthusiasm he can muster, hopping into the chair across from her. She couldn’t look more unbothered, and if Jerome had any say in this at all, he would leave her alone. Unfortunately, he doesn’t, not if he wants to continue not being targeted for vicious, and often, fatal attacks from guards and prisoners alike. 

  
  


“Keep moving, Ginger.” The smile drops from his face. Time to change tactics.

  
  


“Just being polite. What’cha in for?”

  
  


“Killing my parents.” 

  
  


That catches him off guard, but he recovers quickly enough to retort, “oh! Me too! Well, Mom, anyhow.” He hits his hand against the table significantly gentler than Sionis did. “Oh, liberating, right? Oh, what a rush!” Seeing his little charade is doing precious little to get through to her, he drops it altogether. “Yeah, all righty, then. You see the big handsome fella staring at you like you're fried chicken? Richard Sionis. He's a millionaire. Hmm, got his own airplane, got a boat with a hot tub on it...Ah, and he killed 25 people...just for fun.” This catches her attention, if only because he’s not leaving her alone.

  
  


“So what?” Fair question, there are far worse murderers locked away in Arham, but Sionis wasn’t scary because of his murders. He’s scary because he has a connection that only someone with money could have.

  
  


“So... he likes you. He wants to be your friend.”

  
  


“Hmm. Let me think. No,” Blondie snaps, making a show of flipping to the next page of her magazine.

  
  


“A girl needs a good friend in here. See, the guards, they don't care. They figure bad things happen to bad people. And they happen all the time, all the time.” Blondie spins her chair towards one of the beefier-looking inmates. She snaps her fingers at him.

“Hey, you. Hello? Baldy! Here, here. Hello. Yes! Hi. Come here.” She stands up, greeting him.

  
  


“Hi.” Despite his massive appearance, he sounds timid, not surprising as nonviolent offenders get shoved in with violent offenders here all the time. It’s a shame, though, because there are some genuinely good people stuck in here just because they’ve been labeled certifiably insane. If Jerome had more of a bleeding heart he might try to help them, but as it stood, he’s in no place to help himself least of all anybody else. 

  
  


“Hi. My name is Barbara.” Ah, so Blondie has a name. Barbara, the name fits her. “Would you be my friend?” She gives him her best impression of a doe - sweet, innocent, in need of protection - and he eats it up eagerly. 

  
  


”Yes.”

  
  


“Hey, if someone here tries to hurt me...would you protect me?” It’s laughable that Barbra thinks this oaf of a man can protect her in here. The truth of the matter is that if someone wanted to hurt her, they’ll find a way to do so. Still, credit where credit is due. Any protection is better than no protection.

  
  


“Yes.” The inmate looks mesmerized, hanging onto Barbra’s every word. 

  
  


“Thank you so much. Cutie.” She pokes his nose. 

  
  


“Now I have a friend,” Barbra says, casually re-taking her seat and flipping her magazine open. 

  
  


“You're bad.” 

  
  


“Yeah, so why don't you go make me a sandwich?”

  
  


“Your friend is a gorilla. My friend runs the joint.” Sionis is glancing over at them, Jerome can feel his glare burning into the side of his head, reminding him of his overall mission. “And he can get you things that other people can't get you,” Jerome adds as an afterthought, knowing full well that this conversation wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon if he didn’t add an incentive beyond the standard protection.

  
  
  


“Things like what?” She asks, straightening up. Magazine now facedown on the table.

  
  
  


“Anything you need.”

  
  
  


“I need a telephone.” He smiles, slides out from the table.

  
  
  


“Be right back, don’t get too lonely while I’m gone.” He’s facing away from Barbra, but he just knows she’s rolling her eyes - she seems the type to do that sort of thing.

  
  
  


He returns to Sionis, who couldn’t possibly look more pleased with himself. Apparently overhearing their entire conversation, not an impossible feat considering the small area they are confined in. “Barbra says she needs a telephone.” It’s basically pointless at this point to repeat her request, Jerome does so out of virtue of finishing whatever ‘assignment’ or ‘job’ Sionis has issued him.

  
  
  


“Barbra,” he hisses. He cringes inwardly, already feeling bad for her, but not bad enough to say anything to Sionis about it. “Good job, Jerome,” he says patting Jerome’s back before turning to his companions at their table. Great! Now he’s a glorified lap dog. 

  
  


He shuts his eyes, taking deep, even breaths. Two more days, Jerome, just two more days. Then you’ll be able to see Bruce and sleep in a normal bed and chat with Alfred. He’s half-way through another deep breath before there’s the unmistakable sound of gunfire. His eyes snapped open only to be met with smoke. It’s thick, filling his lungs, making him gasp for air. Jerome stumbles forward, reaching for a support. His vision clouds and his head hits the floor. 

  
  


As he teeters on the edge of, what, he can only assume is his early demise, Jerome can’t help but wonder if he should’ve told Bruce the truth regarding Jeremiah. Because maybe then Bruce wouldn’t feel like he’s lost so much.

  
  


I’m so, so sorry Bruce. Is his last thought before he succumbs to the smoke inhalation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice that I reused some of the dialogue from Season two Episode one, mostly because I couldn't think of any original dialogue. Sorry if it became redundant at times. As always, thank you for reading :D


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mentions of past child abuse

Bruce fights to keep his eyes open, head falling forward without him meaning it too. It’s Sunday night, which means Alfred has gone to get Jerome from Arkham. And despite it being a school night, Alfred allows him to break curfew to stay up and wait for them to return. Except they’re usually back by now, and it’s been hours-upon-hours since Alfred’s departure.

  
  


He has tried calling both Alfred’s and Detective Gordon’s phones to no avail - goes straight to voice mail each time. If he hadn’t pulled three consecutive all-nighters working on his parents’ case, maybe Bruce wouldn’t be fighting so hard to stay awake, and maybe then he would be sufficiently worried about their extended-tardiness. 

  
  


Bruce is warm and his head is so, so heavy and Alfred’s probably driving anyway. Just a couple of minutes then he’ll try to reach someone to find out if Jerome and Alfred are okay. He closes his eyes. Head tilting to the side, body going completely slack.

  
  


Bruce is asleep before his head hits the couch.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Alfred is trying his very best to keep his composure. Years of practice are all that stand between him and having a complete-and-utter melt-down. Arkham is more chaotic than usual with patients being carted through the hallways into padded rooms so secure that he wonders how anyone could break-out of Arkham.

  
  


Unless, of course, someone else breaks them out. 

  
  


Six hours! Six hours, the higher-ups in charge of in-patient treatment have known about the break-out, and not one has had the decency to inform him that his new charge was amongst those that got broken out.

  
  


Now, Alfred isn’t one for baseless accusations, and he has to add an extra layer of skepticism in this case for Bruce’s sake, but the evidence is there that Jerome was complicit in the attack. He still sincerely hopes the boy is safe. Jerome has quickly become an honorary member of the Wayne family, although Alfred will never say to his face-mostly because Jerome still has a general dislike for Bruce’s parents-but also because deep down, Alfred knew something like this was going to happen. 

  
  


Call it intuition or a bad-faith claim that ended up being correct, it doesn’t really matter in the long run, the outcome remains the same. Alfred is still going to have to drive home, look Bruce in the eyes, and repeat what has been said to him by many of the passing staffers while waiting in Arkham’s front lobby. Patience wearing-thin, Alfred slams his hand on the bell, rude yes, but it gets the attention of one of the doctors. 

  
  


Her name tag is obscured by a crooked lapel on her white lap-coat. “What do you need?” She asks taking quick peeks behind her like she expects someone to come up from behind to attack. Which, considering where they are currently, might be a necessity for survival. The phone on the front desk rings, echoing shrilly in the (almost) completely abandon front lobby. All signs of the previous hustle-and-bustle to get the patients in a secure location have settled into the occasional doctor, nurse, or guard hurrying past the front’s entryway. 

  
  


The doctor roughly seizes the phone, sighing impatiently into the receiver. “Yes,” she says eyeing Alfred up. “Well, handle it. I’m busy right now.” She slams the phone back into the cradle. 

  
  


“I was here to pick up one of the patients, Jerome Valeska. But your colleagues told me he escaped in the breakout?” Alfred, if nothing else comes of tonight, needs to get confirmation before he heads home.

  
  


“Yes, so what’s your question?”

  
  


“Ah, thank you.” She practically waves him off, scurrying away from the front desk and back deeper into Arkham.

  
  


Unhelpful or not, Alfred has his answer. 

  
  


He just wishes he never has to tell Bruce it.

\-------------------------------

Waking up is hard, not struggling is even harder. The ropes that keep Jerome-and by the looks of it, a few other inmates as well-in place, dig uncomfortably into his skin. But Jerome, who is used to all kinds of terribly uncomfortable and downright painful things, manages to keep his cool better than the others.

  
  


The room, from what Jerome can see-as they are tied down to some sort of cart, Hannibal Lector-looking type thing-the room is spacious, nicely furnished. The kind of room that Jerome can imagine Bruce owning if Wayne Manor wasn’t centuries old.

  
  


Jerome distantly hopes this person-or people-aren’t like Sionis. In Arkham, confined and medicated, Jerome could handle Sionis. The rich bastard was powerful and double-crossing would have been a fatal mistake, but at the end of the day, Jerome and he were still inmates at a notoriously awful insane asylum. In a way, they were equals. Not that those words would ever leave Sionis’ mouth unless under threat of death. To pull off an Arkham break-out requires a certain amount of cunning and intelligence, both things that Sionis lack. His body count was 25x higher than Jerome’s before his arrest, so if someone smarter and richer than Sionis kidnapped them, they’re in trouble.

  
  


A guy, maybe mid-thirties to mid-forties, strolls into view, hands clasped behind his back. He regards them all with a bright smile, eyes roving them over. 

  
  


“Welcome,” he greets cheerfully “to the first day of the rest of your life.” God, Jerome hopes not. He really needs to find a way to explain himself to Bruce properly before he starts coming up with reasons as to why Jerome was broken out of Arkham.

  
  


“What’s the meaning of this?” Sionis’ annoying voice asks. 

  
  


“So glad you asked,” the man says pivoting between looking directly at Sionis and the rest of them. Something in the way he stares Sionis down sets Jerome on edge. It reminds him of the way his mom would look at him before beating the absolute fuck out of him, the kind of look that she gave him when she tried to convince Jerome it was over before starting all over again. His skin prickles. “I believe each one of you has potential in changing Gotham for the better.” His eyes lock with Jerome’s, his gaze much warmer than when he looked upon Sionis, but still dangerous in their intensity.

  
  


“I do apologize, I’ve been terribly rude. I’m Theo Galavan, this,” the man-Theo-gestures towards a woman standing off to the side, “is my sister, Tabitha.” 

  
  


“Now, as for why I brought you all here. Gotham sees you all as no more than criminally insane, but I see you all as you are…” he regards them with a serious deposition. Theo continues, but Jerome quickly shuts him out.

  
  


He has to find a way out of here. If he gets wrapped up in whatever hair-brained scheme that this affluent prick has cooked up, he’ll lose everyone’s trust that matters. 

  
  


“First of all, keep your hands off her.” Sionis’ voice breaks Jerome out of his stupor. “Second, this whole magic team. I gotta pass. I don’t take orders. Intriguing concept.” For the first time since Jerome’s met Sionis, he has to agree with him. Everything about this screams set-up. 

  
  


Theo sighs, “this is very disappointing.” 

  
  


“I understand you probably want a reward or something for busting us out of Arkham. How does a million bucks sound, huh? I can get it for you as soon as I hit the streets. Sound fair?” Theo’s eyes-black beady looking things that remind Jerome vaguely of the little beetles he would find scurrying around the circus grounds-flash with something akin to indignation. 

  
  


“Well, Tabitha can show you the door.” Sionis is cut free by (who Jerome can only assume is) Tabitha. He dusts himself off, walking past Theo with barely an acknowledgment or thanks.

  
  


“Barbra’s coming with me,” Sionis says like Barbra is a take-out menu and not a living, breathing human being. Honestly, someone should off that guy. Jerome shakes his head, trying to remain focused and alert because these people were definitely serial killers or something even more monstrous. 

  
  


“I’m afraid, Miss Kean isn’t going to want to go where you’re headed.” 

  
  


Sionis only gets half of a “what” out before he’s on the ground, bleeding out. 

  
  


Well, shit, this can’t be good. 

\-----------------------------------

Bruce is fast asleep on the couch in the study when Alfred arrives home. He looks so peaceful, angelic even. Guilt weighs heavily upon Alfred, come morning he’ll have to tell Bruce the news. He’ll have to break his too trusting heart, again. 

  
  


Alfred takes a deep breath, moving Bruce into a more comfortable sleeping position and covering him with a throw blanket. “Good night, Master B,” Alfred says, brushing a stray piece of hair off Bruce’s forehead. 

  
  


In his sleep, Bruce smiles. 


	13. Chapter 13

Bruce jolts awake, heart hammering furiously against his ribcage. He can’t help but think that something unspeakably awful has taken place. Bruce brings a loose fist up to rub at his eyes. A quick scan of the room shows nothing amiss. This does precious little to calm his raging nerves. 

  
  


He swiftly pulls his covers to the side, swinging his legs over the edge. The hard wood floor is cold on his bare feet, and for the tiniest glint of a second, Bruce wants to return to bed. 

  
  


The tiny whispers in the dark cervices of Bruce’s mind, warning of danger and death push him forward, until he reaches the bedroom door. He pauses, again, more out of needing to plan the conversation with Alfred - who is most certainly asleep by now and will not be happy when he’s woken up - than out of wanting to go back to sleep.

  
  


Wayne Manor is old, been in the family - hence the name - since it was built in the late 1700s. Besides the occasional update - new curtains here, a better security system there - everything has stayed relatively the same. Which, Bruce supposes, is good, in a historical context. But three hundred year floorboards and doors, tend to squeak when messed with. 

  
  


It’s funny, really, when his mother - Martha, he reminds himself solemnly - was alive, she could pinpoint his exact location in the manor just by hearing him walk. Hide-and-seek was always so hard to win because of it. 

  
  


Bruce smiles at the memory, suddenly missing her and Thomas so terribly much, his heart aches. He ignores the ache in favor of trying to mute his squeaky bedroom door, so Alfred won’t wake up and think something’s wrong.

  
  


The hallway is dark. Cold too. Jerome’s door is right across from his, so close that Bruce can see it even with the limited lighting. 

  
  


Bruce shuffles forward, mind not totally made up on where it would like to go. In the end, he decides to try Jerome first. He usually isn’t asleep by now and is pretty non-judgmental.

  
  


He knocks softly on the door. “Jerome,” he calls out.

  
  


No reply.

  
  


“Jerome? It’s me, Bruce. Can I come in. I really need someone to talk to. If not that’s fine as well.” Bruce stands awkwardly outside the door, staring at his feet.

  
  


No reply. 

  
  


Odd, Bruce thinks, but maybe Arkham has been particularly brutal on him these last weeks. He steps away, not wanting to be the reason that Jerome misses much-needed sleep.

  
  


The whispers have quieted down and overwhelming drowsiness washes over him. Bruce decides to forgo his original plan, just for tonight. He’ll talk to Alfred and Jerome tomorrow about his nightmares, and pounding heart, and pure-unadulterated fear that takes hold of him in between the nightmares and consciousness. 

  
  


He makes his way back to his bedroom. Tomorrow, Bruce will ask what took Alfred so long to collect Jerome. The door squeaks, loudly, and Bruce does nothing to quiet it. Tomorrow, he’ll ask Jerome if Arkham is manageable - because if not, maybe, just maybe, Bruce can do something about it (maybe Detective Gordon could be persuaded to give Jerome house arrest). The door clicks shut behind him, and Bruce is immediately hit by warmth. The heater is on - the rusty parts clanging together (just another thing that hasn’t been replaced in god knows how many years). Tomorrow, Bruce can speak with Jerome, tell him all about how school was going - tell him about Thomas Eliot (without saying Thomas Eliot, as much as Bruce detests the older boy, he doesn’t want him hurt, dead, or maimed) over Alfred’s - wonderful, mouthwatering - home cooking. Bruce lays down, thoughts getting fuzzier as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

  
  


Bruce can hardly wait for tomorrow.

\--------------------------

Jerome sits at the kitchen table, fidgeting with his hands. He tries to keep a constant look of interest painted on his face. Occasionally, Theo Galavan will stare at him, as if expecting him to say something or do something, he always ends up looking away from Jerome, clearly disappointed in what he sees or doesn’t see.

  
  


“The first mission for the manix starts tomorrow. So, get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it,” Theo says dismissing them with a wave of his hand. The others file out of the room.

  
  


“Jerome? What are you still doing here?” Theo sounds pleasant, friendly even, but there’s a certain, homicidal glint in his eye that makes it hard to get the words out.

  
  


“Uh, I was hoping I could use a phone. I need to take care of something. Not to call the cops or anything - you monitor the call if you like, just I really need to call someone.” 

  
  


“Call someone, huh?” Theo considers Jerome’s words. “There’s a landline in the living room, I won’t monitor you.” 

  
  


Oh, joyous day! Jerome smiles, the first genuine one since being kidnapped. “Thank you,” Jerome all but shouts. He turns to find his way to the phone.

  
  


“Jerome?”

  
  


“Yes?”

  
  


“I won’t monitor you, but if you betray me, I will destroy you and everything you hold dear. Got it?” 

  
  


“Got it,” Jerome clicks his tongue, trying to add-in humor to the tense atmosphere. There’s a good chance Theo already knows that Jerome is threatened by his imposing presence, but it doesn’t hurt to act like that isn’t the case.

  
  


Jerome is quick to leave after that, lest Theo think of more threats against his or Bruce’s (although he highly doubts that Theo knows of their shared-blood) persons. 

  
  


The phone, for the most part, is easy to find. The hard part is getting passed the others without raising suspicion. Sure, Theo was being gracious enough to let him use the phone, but Jerome isn’t naive enough to think those privileges couldn’t or wouldn’t be revoked in a heartbeat if they all started fighting over the phone. 

  
  


Thankfully for him, the others are already fighting over a piece of fine china. Tabitha and Barbra sit curled up in the corner, eyeing the idiots and whispering in each other’s ears. They pay little mind to him beyond smirking in his general direction.

  
  


Good for Barbra, Jerome can’t help but think as he approaches the phone.

  
  


Jerome has to take a moment or two to remember the correct number. He punches the numbers quickly before he has time to back down. There’s the shrill ring of the other line, then…

  
  


“Who’s this?” His uncle’s gruff voice answers the phone. Jerome freezes temporarily, unable to process how to talk to the person who made his childhood a living hell. Well, the only  _ living  _ person.

  
  


“Jerome,” his voice wavers. He can hear Uncle Zach grumble a string of curses. “Please don’t hang up!” 

  
  


“Well? Why did you call?” 

  
  


“This is a weird request, but I know you sent Jeremiah to a boarding school somewhere in Gotham. I need you to write it down and write down Jeremiah’s full name and send it to…” Jerome lowers his voice, cupping the mouthpiece.

  
  


“...Wayne Manor.”

  
  


“What the fuck kind of request is that?” Even through the phone, Jerome can smell his whiskey, vodka breath. “And why would I want to help the very person who murdered my sister? You’ve always been a special kind of idiot. But this, this takes the whole fucking cake.” 

  
  


“You wouldn’t be helping me per se. Do you remember Bruce?”

  
  


“Yeah, little runt. Got sick and died? What ‘bout him?” 

  
  


“So, he didn’t die. The Waynes’ adopted him, long story, but I can’t protect him, and I at the very least want him to have a semi-normal relationship with Jeremiah. Please Unc’. You don’t have to tell me anything, just send it to Wayne Manor, please. I promise I won’t try to find you ever again.”

  
  


“Fine…” The line goes dead.


End file.
